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The 

SECOND HONEYMOON 
























The 

SECOND HONEYMOON 


BY 

RUBY M. AYRES 

AUTHOR OF 

“RICHARD CHATTERTON,” ETC. 



New York 

W. J. Watt & Company 
publishers 


Copyright, 1921, by 
W. J. WATT & COMPANY 


JAN 28 i922 


Printed in the United States of America 


§>CIA654'772 



/ 


/ 



For a moment the gaily lit room swam before him 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I 

The Past Intervenes i 

CHAPTER II 

Jilted! 22 

CHAPTER III 

The Two Women 26 

CHAPTER IV 

Jimmy Gets News 32 

CHAPTER V 

Sangster Takes a hand 40 

CHAPTER VI 

Jimmy Demands the Truth 47 

CHAPTER VII 

Love and Poverty 53 

CHAPTER VIII 

The Second Engagement 58 

CHAPTER IX 

Motherless 77 

V 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER X 

Jimmy Has a Visitor 81 

CHAPTER XI 

Husband and Wife 92 

CHAPTER XII 

Sangster is Consulted 109 

CHAPTER XIII 

Christine Hears the Truth 118 

CHAPTER XIV 

Bitterness 133 

CHAPTER XV 

Sangster Speaks in Riddles 138 

CHAPTER XVI 

The Past Returns 146 

CHAPTER XVII 

Jimmy Breaks Out 162 

CHAPTER XVIII 

Kettering Hears Something .... w •. 174 

CHAPTER XIX 

A Chance Meeting 193 

CHAPTER XX 

Love Locked Out ig 9 


CONTENTS vii 

CHAPTER XXI 

The Compact 206 

CHAPTER XXII 

Too Late! 226 

CHAPTER XXIII 

The Unexpected 240 



The 

SECOND HONEYMOON 


\ 


< 



THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


CHAPTER I 

THE PAST INTERVENES 

J AMES CHALLONER, known to his friends 
and intimates as Jimmy, brushed an imaginary 
speck of dust from the shoulder of his dinner 
jacket, and momentarily stopped his cheery whistling 
to stare at himself in the glass with critical eyes. 

Jimmy was feeling very pleased with himself in 
particular and the world in general. He was young, 
and quite passably good-looking, he had backed a 
couple of winners that day for a nice little sum, and 
he was engaged to a woman with whom he had 
been desperately in love for at least three months. 

Three months was a long time for Jimmy Chal- 
loner to be in love (as a rule, three days was the 
outside limit which he allowed himself), but this — 
well, this was the real thing at last — the real, 
romantic thing of which author chaps and play- 
wright Johnnies wrote; the thing which sweeps a 
man clean off his feet and paints the world with 
rainbow tints. 


2 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

Jimmy Challoner was sure of it. His usually 
merry eyes sobered a little as he met their solemn 
reflection in the mirror. He took up a silver-backed 
brush and carefully smoothed down a kink of hair 
which stood aggressively erect above the rest. It 
was a confounded nuisance, that obstinate wave in 
his hair, making him look like a poet or a drawing- 
room actor. 

Not that he objected to actors and the stage in 
the very least; on the contrary, he had the pro- 
foundest admiration for them, at which one could 
hardly wonder seeing that Cynthia — bless her heart! 
— was at present playing lead in one of the suburban 
theatres, and that at that very moment a pass for 
the stage box reposed happily in an inner pocket of 
his coat. 

Cynthia was fast making a name for herself. In 
his adoring eyes she was perfect, and in his blissful 
heart he was confident that one day all London 
would be talking about her. Her photographs 
would be in every shop window, and people would 
stand all day outside the pit and gallery to cheer her 
on first nights. 

When he voiced these sentiments to Cynthia her- 
self, she only laughed and called him a “silly boy” ; 
but he knew that she was pleased to hear them all 
the same. 

Jimmy Challoner gave a last look at his immacu- 
late figure, took up his coat and gloves and went out. 

He called a taxi and gave the address of the 
suburban theatre before he climbed in out of the 
chilly night and sat back in a corner. 


/ u 

THE PAST INTERVENES 3 

Jimmy Challoner was quite young, and very much 
in love; so much in love that as yet he had not 
penetrated the rouge and grease-paint of life and 
discovered the very ordinary material that lies 
beneath it. The glare of the footlights still blinded 
him. Like a child who is taken for the first time to 
a pantomime, he did not realise that their brilliance 
is there in order to hide imperfections. 

He was so perfectly happy that he paid the driver 
double fare when he reached the theatre. An 
attentive porter hurried forward. 

Just at the moment Jimmy Challoner was very 
well known in that particular neighbourhood; he 
was generous with his tips for one thing, and for 
another he had a cheery personality which went 
down with most people. 

He went round to the stage door as if Jie were 
perfectly at home there, as indeed he was. The 
doorkeeper bade him a respectful good evening, and 
asked no questions as he went on and up the chill 
stone passage. 

At the top a door on the right was partly open. 
A bar of yellow light streamed out into the passage. 
A little flush crept into Challoner’s youthful face. 
He passed a hand once more nervously over the 
refractory kink before he went forward and 
knocked. 

A preoccupied voice said, “Come in.” 

Challoner obeyed. He stood for a moment just 
inside the door without speaking. 

It was not a very large room, and the first im 


4 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


pression It gave one was that It was frightfully 
overcrowded. 

Every chair and table seemed littered with frocks 
and furbelows. Every available space on the walls 
was covered with pictures and photographs and odds 
and ends. The room was brilliantly lit, and at a 
dressing-table strewn with make-up boxes and a 
hundred and one toilet requisites, a girl was reading 
a letter. 

At first glance she looked very young. She was 
small and dainty, with clearly cut features and 
beautiful hair, the most beautiful hair in all the 
world Jimmy Challoner thought for the thousandth 
time as he stood in the doorway looking across at 
her with his foolish heart in his eyes. She seemed 
to feel his gaze, for she turned sharply. Then she 
drew in her breath hard, and hurriedly thrust the 
letter away in a drawer as she rose to her feet. 

“You!” she said; then, “Jimmy, didn’t — didn’t 
you get my letter?” 

Challoner went forward. His confident smile had 
faded a little at the unusual greeting. It was im- 
possible not to realise that he was not exactly wel- 
come. 

“No, I haven’t had a letter,” he said rather 
blankly. “What did you write about? Is anything 
the matter?” 

She laughed rather constrainedly. “No — at least, 
I can’t explain now.” Her eyes sought his face 
rather furtively. “I’m in a hurry. Come round 
after the first act, will you? — that’s the longest 


THE PAST INTERVENES 


5 

interval. You won’t mind being sent away now, will 
you? I am due on almost directly.” 

She held her hand to him. “Silly boy! don’t 
frown like that.” 

Challoner took the hand and drew her nearer to 
him. “I’m not going till you’ve kissed me.” 

There was a touch of masterfulness in his boyish 
voice. Cynthia Farrow half sighed, and for a mo- 
ment a little line of pain bent her brows, but the next 
moment she was smiling. 

“Very well, just one, and be careful of the 
powder.” 

Challoner kissed her right on the lips. “Did you 
get my flowers? I sent roses.” 

“Yes, thank you so much, they are lovely.” 

She glanced across the room to where several 
bouquets lay on the table. Challoner’s was only one 
of them. 

That was what he hated — having to stand by and 
allow other men to shower presents on her. 

He let her go and walked over to the table where 
the flowers lay. He was still frowning. Across the 
room Cynthia Farrow watched him rather anxiously. 

A magnificent cluster of orchids lay side by side 
with his own bouquet of roses; he bent and looked 
at the card; a little flush crept into his cheek. 

“Mortlake again! I hate that fellow. It’s in- 
fernal cheek of him to send you flowers when he 
knows that you’re engaged to me ” 

He looked round at her. She was standing lean- 
ing against the littered dressing-table, eyes down- 
cast. 


6 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


There was a moment of silence, then Challoner 
went back and took her in his arms. 

“I know I’m a jealous brute, but I can’t stand it 
when these other fellows send you things.” 

“You promised me you wouldn’t mind.” 

“I know, but — oh, confound it!” A faint tap at 
the door was followed by the entrance of a dresser. 
Challoner moved away. 

“After the first act, then,” he said. 

“Yes.” But she did not look at him. 

He went away disconsolately and round to the 
stage box. He was conscious of a faint depression. 
Cynthia had not been pleased to see him — had not 
been expecting him. Something was the matter. 
He had vexed her. What had she written to him 
about, he wondered? 

He looked round the house anxiously. It was well 
filled and his brow cleared. He hated Cynthia to 
have to play to a poor house — she was so wonder- 
ful ! 

A lady in the stalls below bowed to him. Chal- 
loner stared, then returned the bow awkwardly. 

Who the dickens was she, he asked himself? 

She was middle-aged and grey-haired, and she had 
a girl in a white frock sitting beside her. 

They were both looking up at him and smiling. 
There was something eagerly expectant in the girl’s 
face. 

Challoner felt embarrassed. He was sure that he 
ought to know who they were, but for the life of 
him he could not think. He met so many people in 


THE PAST INTERVENES 


7 

his rather aimless life it was impossible to remember 
them all. 

His eyes turned to them again and again. There 
was something very familiar in the face of the elder 

woman — something Challoner knit his brows. 

Who the dickens 

The lights went down here, and he forgot all 
about them as the curtains rolled slowly up on Cyn- 
thia’s first act. 

Challoner almost knew the play by heart, but he 
followed it all eagerly, word by word, as if he had 
never seen it before, till the big velvet curtains fell 
together again, and a storm of applause broke the 
silence. 

Challoner rose hastily. He had just opened the 
door of the box to go to Cynthia when an attendant 
entered. He carried a note on a tray. 

“For you, sir.” 

" Challoner took it wonderingly. It was written in 
pencil on a page torn from a pocket-book. 

“A lady in the stalls gave it to me, sir,” the 
attendant explained, vaguely apologetic. 

Jimmy unfolded the little slip of paper, and read 
the faintly pencilled words. “Won’t you come and 
speak to us, or have you quite forgotten the old days 
at Upton House?” 

Challoner’s face flashed into eager delight. What 
an idiot he had been not to recognise them. How 
could he have ever forgotten them? Of course, the 
girl in the white frock was Christine, whose mother 
had given his boyhood all it had ever known of 
home life! 


8 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Of course, he had not seen them for years, but — 
dash it all! what an ungrateful brute they must 
think him! 

For the moment even Cynthia was forgotten in 
the sudden excitement of this meeting with old 
friends. Challoner rushed off to the stalls. 

“I knew it must be you,” Christine’s mother said, 
as Jimmy dropped into an empty seat beside her. 
“Christine saw you first, but we knew you had not 
the faintest notion as to who we were, although 
you bowed so politely,” she added laughing. 

“I’m ashamed, positively ashamed,” Jimmy ad- 
mitted, blushing ingenuously. “But I am delighted 
— simply delighted to see you and Christine again — 
I suppose it is Christine,” he submitted doubtfully. 

The girl in the white frock smiled. “Yes, and I 
knew you at once,” she said. 

Challoner was conscious of a faint disappointment 
as he looked at her. She had been such a pretty 
kid. She had hardly fulfilled all the promise she 
had given of being an equally pretty woman, he 
thought critically, not realising that it was the vivid 
colouring of Cynthia Farrow that had for the mo- 
ment at least spoilt him for paler beauty. 

Christine was very pale and a little nervous-look- 
ing. Her eyes — such beautiful brown eyes they 
were — showed darkly against her fair skin. Her 
hair was brown, too, dead brown, very straight and 
soft. 

“By Jove! it’s ripping to see you again after all 
this time,” Jimmy Challoner broke out again 
eagerly. He looked at the mother rather than the 


THE PAST INTERVENES 


9 


daughter, for though he and Christine had been 
sweethearts for a little while in her pinafore days, 
Jimmy Challoner had adored Mrs. Wyatt right up 
to the time when, in his first Eton coat, he had said 
good-bye to her to go to school and walked right 
out of their lives. 

“And what are you doing now, Jimmy?” Mrs. 
Wyatt asked him. “I suppose I may still call you 
Jimmy?” she said playfully. 

“Rather! please do! I’m not doing anything, as 
a matter of fact,” Challoner explained rather 
vaguely. “I’ve got rooms in the Temple, and the 
great Horatio sends me a quarterly allowance, and 
expects me not to live beyond it.” He made a little 
grimace. “You remember my brother Horace, of 
course !” 

“Of course I do! Is he still abroad?” 

“Yes, he’ll never come back now; not that I want 
him to,” Jimmy hastened to add, with one of those 
little inward qualms that shook him whenever he 
thought of his brother, and what that brother would 
say when he knew that he was shortly to be asked 
to accept Cynthia Farrow as a sister-in-law. 

The great Horatio, as Jimmy disrespectfully 
called the head of his family, loathed the stage. It 
was his one dread that some day the blueness of his 
blood might run the risk of taint by being even re- 
motely connected with one of its members. 

“He’s not married, of course?” Mrs. Wyatt 
asked. 

Challoner chuckled. “Married! Good Lord, no!” 
He leaned a little forward to look at Christine. 


10 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

“And you?” he asked. “Has the perfect man 
come along yet?” 

It had been an old joke of his in the far away 
days, that Christine would never marry until she 
found a perfect man. She had always had such 
quaintly romantic fancies behind the seriousness of 
her beautiful brown eyes. 

She flushed now, shaking her head. “And you?” 
she asked. “Are you married?” 

Challoner said “No” very quickly. He wondered 
whether he ought to tell them about Cynthia. The 
thought reminded him of his promise to go to her 
after the first act. He rose hastily to his feet. 

“I quite forgot. I’ve got an appointment. If 
you’ll excuse me, I’ll come back, if I may.” 

He bowed himself off. Christine’s beautiful eye9 
followed him wistfully. 

“I never thought he’d be half so good-looking 
when he grew up,” she said. “And yet somehow he 
hasn’t altered much, has he?” 

“He hasn’t altered in manner in the least,” Mrs. 
Wyatt laughed. “Fancy him remembering about 
your perfect man, Christine? We must ask him to 
dinner one night while we are in London. How 
funny, meeting him like this. I always liked him so 
much. I wonder he hasn’t got married, though — a 
charming boy like that!” But her voice sounded as 
if she were rather pleased to find Challoner still a 
bachelor. 

“I don’t know why he should be married,” 
Christine said. “He’s not very old — only twenty- 
seven, mother.” 


THE PAST INTERVENES 


ii 


“Is that all? Yes, I suppose he is — the time goes 
so quickly.” 

Challoner, meanwhile, had raced off to the back 
of the stage. He could not imagine how on earth 
he had even for one second forgotten his appoint- 
ment. He was flushed with remorse and eagerness 
when he reached Cynthia’s room. 

A dresser was retouching her hair. Challoner 
waited impatiently till Cynthia sent her away. It 
occurred to him that she was deliberately detaining 
her. He bit his lip. 

But at last she was dismissed, and the door had 
hardly closed before he stepped forward. 

“Darling!” his eager arms were round her. “Are 
you angry with me? Did you think I had forgotten? 
I met some old friends — at least, they spotted me 
from the stalls and sent a note, and, of course, 1 
had to go and speak to them.” 

She was standing rather stiffly within the circle of 
his arms. 

“You’re not wild with me?” he asked in a whisper. 
“I’m so sorry. If you knew how badly I wanted to 
see you.” 

He kissed her lips. 

She was singularly unresponsive, though for a 
moment she let her head rest against his shoulder. 
Then she raised it and moved away. 

“Jimmy, I want to talk to you. No, stay there,” 
as he made a little eager movement to follow. “Stay 
there; I can’t talk to you if you won’t be sensible.” 

“I am sensible.” Challoner dragged up a chair 
and sat straddled across it, his arms on the back, 


12 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


looking at her with ardent eyes. She kept her 
own averted. She seemed to find it hard to begin 
what it was she wanted to say. She stood beside 
the dressing-table absently fingering the trinkets ly- 
ing there. Among them was a portrait of Challoner 
in a silver frame. The pictured eyes seemed to be 
watching her as she stood trying to avoid the human 
ones. With sudden exasperation she turned. 

“Jimmy, you’ll hate me — you’ll — oh, why didn’t 
you get my letter?” she broke out vehemently. “I 
explained so carefully, I ” she stopped. 

There was a little silence. Challoner rose to his 
feet. He was rather white about the lips. There 
was a dawning apprehension in his eyes. 

“Go on,” he said. “What is it you — you can’t — 
can’t tell me?” 

But he knew already, knew before she told him 
with desperate candour. 

“I can’t marry you, Jimmy. I’m sorry, but — but 
I can’t — that’s all.” 

The silence fell again. Behind the closed door in 
the crowded theatre the orchestra suddenly broke 
into a ragtime. Challoner found himself listening 
to it dully. Everything felt horribly unreal. It al- 
most seemed like a scene in a play — this hot, 
crowded room; the figure of the woman opposite in 
her expensive stage gown, and — himself! 

A long glass on the wall opposite reflected both 
their figures. Jimmy Challoner met his mirrored 
eyes, and a little wave of surprise filled him when 
he saw how white he was. He pulled himself to- 


THE PAST INTERVENES 


13 

gether with a desperate effort. He tried to find his 
voice. 

Suddenly he heard it, cracked, strained, asking a 
one-word question. 

“Why?” 

She did not answer at once. She had turned away 
again. She was aimlessly opening and shutting a 
little silver powder-box lying amongst the brushes 
and make-up. All his life Jimmy Challoner remem- 
bered the little clicking noise it made. 

He could see nothing of her face. He made a 
sudden passionate movement towards her. 

“Cynthia, in God’s name why — why?” 

He laid his hands on her shoulders. She wriggled 
free of his touch. For an instant she seemed to be 
deliberately weighing something in her mind. Then 
at last she spoke. 

“Because — because my husband is still living.” 

“Still — living!” Jimmy Challoner echoed the 
words stupidly. He passed a hand over his eyes. 
He felt dazed. After a moment he laughed. He 
groped backwards for a chair and dropped into it. 

“Still — living! Are you — are you sure?” 

So it was not that she did not love him. His first 
thought was one of utter relief — thank God, it wa9 
not that! 

She put the little silver box down with a sort of 
impatience. “Yes,” she said. She spoke so softly 
he could hardly catch the monosyllable. 

Challoner leaned his head in his hands. He was 
trying desperately to think, to straighten out this 


H 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


hopeless tangle in his brain, but everything was 
confused. 

Of course, he knew that she had been married 
before — knew that years and years ago, before she 
had really known her own mind, she had married a 
man — a worthless waster — who had left her within 
a few months of their marriage. She had told him 
this herself, quite straightforwardly. Told him, too, 
that the man was dead. 

And after all he was still living ! 

The knowledge hammered against his brain, but 
as yet he could not realise its meaning. Cynthia 
went on jerkily. 

“I only knew — yesterday. I wrote to you. I — 
at first I thought it could not be true. But — but 
now I know it is. Oh, why don’t you say something 
— anything?” she broke out passionately. 

Challoner looked up. “What can I say, if this is 
true?” 

“It is true,” her face was flushed. There was a 
hard look in her eyes as if she were trying to keep 
back tears. After a moment she moved over to 
where he sat and laid a hand on his shoulder. 

Jimmy Challoner turned his head and kissed it. 

“Don’t take it so badly, Jimmy. It’s — it’s worse 
for me,” her voice broke. A cleverer man than 
Jimmy Challoner might have heard the little theatri- 
cal touch in the words, but Jimmy was too genuinely 
miserable himself to be critical. 

At the first sob he was on his feet. He put his 
arms round her; he laid his cheek against her hair; 
but he did not kiss her. Afterwards he wondered 


THE PAST INTERVENES 


15 

what instinct it was that kept him from kissing her. 
He broke out into passionate protestations. 

“I can’t give you up. There must be some way 
out for us all. You don’t love him, and you do care 
for me. It can’t be true, it’s — it’s some abominable 
trick to part us, Cynthia.” 

“It is true,” she said again. “It is true.” 

She drew away from him. She began to cry, care- 
fully, so as not to spoil her make-up. She hid her 
face in her hands. Once she looked at him through 
her white fingers to see how he was taking it. Jimmy 
Challoner was taking it very badly indeed. He 
stood biting his lip hard. His hands were clenched. 

“For God’s sake don’t cry,” he broke out at 
length. “It drives me mad to see you cry. I’ll find 
a way out. We should have been so happy. I can’t 
give you up.” 

He spoke incoherently and stammeringly. He 
was really very much in love, and now the thought 
of separation was a burning glass, magnifying that 
love a thousandfold. 

There were voices outside. Cynthia hastily dried 
her eyes. She did not look as if she had been cry- 
ing very bitterly. 

“That’s my call. I shall have to go. Don’t keep 
me now. I’ll write, Jimmy. I’ll see you again.” 

“You promise me that, whatever happens?” 

“I promise.” He caught her fingers and kissed 
them. “Darling, I’ll come back for you when the 
show’s over. I can’t bear to leave you like this. 
You do love me?” 

“Do you need to ask?” 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


16 

The words wer-e an evasion, but he did not notice 
it. He went back to the stage box feeling as if the 
world had come to an end. 

He forgot all about the Wyatts in the stalls below. 
Christine’s brown eyes turned towards him again 
and again, but he never once looked her way. His 
attention was centered on the stage and the woman 
who played there. 

She was so beautiful he could never give her up, 
he told himself passionately. With each moment her 
charm seemed to grow. He watched her with de- 
spairing eyes; life without her was a crude impossi- 
bility. He could not imagine existence in a world 
where he might not love her. That other fellow — 
curse the other fellow! — he ground his teeth in im- 
potent rage. 

The brute had deserted her years ago and left her 
to starve. He had not the smallest claim on her 
now. By the time the play was ended Jimmy Chal- 
loner had worked himself into a white heat of rage 
and despair. 

Christine Wyatt, glancing once more towards him 
as the curtain rose for the final call, wondered a little 
at the tense, unyielding attitude of his tall figure. 
He was standing staring at the stage as if for him 
there was nothing else in all the world. She stifled 
a little sigh as she turned to put on her cloak. 

The house was still applauding and clamouring 
for Cynthia to show herself again. Challoner 
waited. He loved to see her come before the cur- 
tain — loved the little graceful way she bowed to 
her audience. 


THE PAST INTERVENES 


1 7 


But to-night he waited in vain, and. when at last 
he pushed his way round to the stage door it was 
only to be told that Miss Farrow had left the 
theatre directly the play was over. 

Challoner’s heart stood still for a moment. She 
had done this deliberately to avoid him, he was sure. 
He asked an agitated question. 

“Did she — did she go alone?” 

The doorkeeper answered without looking at him, 
“There was a gent with her, sir — Mr. Mortlake, I 
think.” 

Challoner went out into the night blindly. He 
had to pass the theatre to get back to the main street. 
Mrs. Wyatt and Christine were just entering a taxi. 
Christine saw him. She touched his arm diffidently 
as he passed. 

“Jimmy!” 

Challoner pulled up short. He would have 
avoided them had it been at all possible. 

Mortlake ! she had gone with that brute, whilst he 
— he answered Mrs. Wyatt mechanically. 

“Thanks — thanks very much. I was going to 
walk, but if you will be so kind as to give me a lift.” 

He really hardly knew what he was saying. He 
took off his hat and passed a hand dazedly across 
his forehead before he climbed into the taxi and 
found himself sitting beside Christine. 

He forced himself to try to make conversation. 
“Well, and how did you enjoy the play?” 

It was a ghastly effort to talk. He wondered if 
they would notice how strange his manner was. 

“Immensely,” Mrs. Wyatt told him. “I’ve heard 


i8 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


so much about Cynthia Farrow, but never seen her 
before. She certainly is splendid.” 

“She’s the most beautiful woman I have ever 
seen,” said Christine. 

Challoner shot her a grateful look. Most women 
were cats and never had a word of praise for one of 
their own sex. He felt slightly comforted. 

“If you’ve nothing better to do, Jimmy,” said 
Mrs. Wyatt, “won’t you come back to the hotel and 
have some supper with us? We are only up in town 
for a fortnight. Do come if you can.” 

Challoner said he would be delighted. He wa9 
very young in some ways. He had not the smallest 
intention of calling on Cynthia that night. He 
wished savagely that she could know what he wa9 
doing; know that in spite of everything he was not 
breaking his heart for her. 

She was with that brute Mortlake; well, he was 
not going to spend the next hour or two alone with 
only his thoughts for company. 

He wondered where Cynthia had gone, and if she 
had known all along that Mortlake was calling for 
her. He ground his teeth. 

The two women were talking together. They did 
not seem to notice his silence. Christine’s voice 
reminded him a little of Cynthia’s; a sudden revul- 
sion of feeling flooded his heart. 

Poor darling! all this was not her fault. No 
doubt she was just as miserable as he. He longed 
to go to her. He wished he had not accepted the 
Wyatts’ invitation. He felt that it was heartless of 


THE PAST INTERVENES 


19 

him to have done so. He would have excused him- 
self even now if the taxi had not already started. 

Mrs. Wyatt turned to him. “I suppose you are 
very fond of theatres?” 

“Yes — no — yes, I mean; I go to heaps.” He 
wondered if his reply sounded very foolish and 
absent-minded. He rushed on to cover it. “I’ve 
seen this particular play a dozen times; it’s a great 
favourite of mine. I — I’m very keen on it.” 

“I think it is lovely,” said Christine dreamily. 

She was leaning back beside him in the corner. 
He could only see her white-gloved hands clasped in 
the lap of her frock. 

“You must let me take you to some,” he said. 
He had a rotten feeling that if he stopped talking 
for a minute he would make a fool of himself. “I 
often get passes for first nights and things,” he 
rambled on. 

Christine sat up. “Do you! oh, how lovely! I 
should love to go! Jimmy, do you — do you know 
any people on the stage — actors and actresses?” 

“I know some — yes. I know quite a lot.” 

“Not Miss Farrow, I suppose?” she questioned 
[eagerly. 

“Yes — yes, I do,” said Challoner. 

She gave a little cry of delight. “Oh, I wish I 
could meet her — she’s so beautiful.” 

Challoner could not answer. He would have 
given worlds had it been possible to stop the cab and 
rush away; but he knew he had got to go through 
with it now, and presently he found himself follow- 


20 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


ing Mrs. Wyatt and Christine through the hall of 
the hotel at which they were staying. 

“It’s quite like old times, isn’t it?” he said with 
an effort. “Quite like the dear old days at Upton 
House. Don’t I wish we could have them again.” 

“The house is still there,” said Mrs. Wyatt laugh- 
ing. “Perhaps you will come down again some 
day.” 

Challoner did not think it likely. There would 
be something very painful in going back to the scene 
of those days, he thought. He was so much changed 
from the light-hearted youngster who had chased 
Christine round the garden and pulled her hair be- 
cause she would not kiss him. 

He looked at her with reminiscent eyes. There 
was a little flush in her pale cheeks. She looked 
more like the child-sweetheart he had so nearly 
forgotten. 

Mrs. Wyatt had moved away. He and Christine 
were alone. “I used to kiss you in those days, didn’t 
I?” he asked, looking at her. He felt miserable and 
reckless. 

She looked up at him with serious eyes. “Yes,” 
she said almost inaudibly. 

Something in her face stirred an old emotion in 
Jimmy Challoner’s heart. This girl had been his 
first love, and a man never really forgets his first 
love; he leaned nearer to her. 

“Christine, do you — do you wish we could have 
those days over again?” he asked. 

A little quiver crossed her face. For a moment 
the beautiful brown eyes lit up radiantly. For a 


THE PAST INTERVENES 21 

moment she was something better than just merely 
pretty. 

He waited eagerly for her answer. His pride, if 
nothing deeper, had been seriously wounded that 
night. The tremulous happiness in this girl’s face 
was like a gentle touch on a hurt. 

“Do you — do you wish it?” he asked again. 
“Yes,” said Christine softly. “Yes, if you do.” 


CHAPTER II 


JILTED! 

I T was late when Jimmy got home to his rooms; 
he was horribly tired, and his head ached vilely, 
but he never slept a wink all night. 

The fact that Cynthia’s husband was alive did 
not hurt him nearly so much as the fact that Cynthia 
had avoided him that evening and left the theatre 
with Mortlake. Jimmy hated Mortlake. The brute 
had such piles of money, whilst he — even the insuffi- 
cient income which was always mortgaged weeks 
before the quarterly cheque fell due, only came to 
him from his brother. At any moment the Great 
Horatio might cut up rough and stop supplies. 

Jimmy was up and dressed earlier than ever be- 
fore in his life. He went out and bought some of 
the most expensive roses he could find in the shops. 
He took them himself to Cynthia Farrow’s flat and 
scribbled a note begging her to see him if only for 
a moment. 

The answer came back verbally. Miss Farrow 
sent her love and best thanks but she was very tired 
and her head ached — would he call again in the 
afternoon? 

Challoner turned away without answering. There 
was a humiliating lump in his throat. At that 


22 


JILTED 


23 


moment he was the most wretched man in the whole 
of London. How on earth could he get through the 
whole infernal morning? And was she always go- 
ing to treat him like this in the future? refusing to 
see him — deliberately avoiding him. 

He wandered about the West End, staring into 
shop windows. At twelve o’clock he was back again 
at his rooms. A messenger boy was at the door 
when he reached it. He held a letter which Chal- 
loner took from him. It was from Cynthia Farrow. 

He tore it open anyhow. His pulses throbbed 
with excitement. She had relented, of course, and 
wanted to see him at once. He was so sure of it 
that it was like a blow over the heart when he read 
the short note. 

Dear Jimmy, — I am afraid you will be hurt at what I am 
going to say, but I am sure it is better for us not to meet 
again. It only makes things harder for us both, and can do 
no good. I ought to have said good-bye to you last night, 
only at the last moment I hadn’t the courage. If you really 
care for me you will keep away, and make no attempt to see 
me. I can never marry you, and though we have had some 
very happy days together, I hope that you will forget me. 
Please don’t write, either; I really mean what I say, that this 
is good-bye. 

Cynthia. 

The messenger boy fidgeted uncomfortably, star- 
ing at Jimmy Challoner’s white face. Presently he 
ventured a question. “Is there an answer, sir?” 

Challoner turned then, “No, no answer.” 

He let himself into his rooms and shut the door. 


24 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


He felt as if he were walking in space. For the 
moment he was unconscious of any emotion. 

He walked over to the window and read the letter 
again. The only thing about it that really struck 
him was its note of finality. 

This was no petulantly written dismissal. She 
had thought it well out; she really meant it. 

He was jilted! The word stung him into life. 
His face flamed. A wave of passionate anger swept 
over him. He was jilted! The detestable thing 
for which he had always so deeply pitied other men 
of his acquaintance had happened to him. He was 
no longer an engaged man, he was discarded, un- 
wanted ! 

For the moment he forgot the eloquent fact of 
Cynthia’s marriage. He only realised that she had 
thrown him aside — finished with him. 

And he had loved her so much. He had never 
cared a hang for any other woman in all his life in 
comparison with the devotion he had poured at 
Cynthia’s feet. 

He looked round the room with blank eyes. He 
could not believe that he had not fallen asleep and 
dreamed it all. His gaze was arrested by Cynthia’s 
portrait on the shelf — it seemed to be watching him 
with smiling eyes. 

In sudden rage he crossed the room and snatched 
it up. He stood for a second holding it in his hand 
as if not knowing what to do with it, then he dashed 
it down into the fireplace. The glass splintered into 
hundreds of fragments. Jimmy Challoner stood 
staring down at them with passionate eyes. He 


JILTED 25 

hated her. She was a flirt, a coquette without a 
heart. 

If he could only pay her out — only let her see how 
utterly indifferent he was. If only there was some 
other woman who would be nice to him, and let him 
be nice to her, to make Cynthia jealous. 

He thought suddenly of Christine Wyatt, of the 
little flame in her brown eyes when last night he had 
reminded her of the old days at Upton House. His 
vain man’s heart had been stirred then. She liked 
him at all events. 

Mrs. Wyatt had said that she hoped they would 
see much of him while they were in London. If he 
chose, he knew that he could be with them all day 
and every day. Cynthia would get to hear of it. 
Cynthia would know that he was not wearing the 
willow for her. He would not even answer her 
letter. He would just keep away — walk out of her 
life. 

For a moment a sort of desolation gripped him. 
He had been so proud of her, thought so much of 
their future together; made such wonderful plans for 
getting round the Great Horatio; and now — it was 
all ended — done for! 

His careless face fell into haggard lines, but the 
next instant he got a fresh grip of himself. He 
would show her, he would let her see that he was no 
weakling, no lovelorn swain pleading for denied 
favours. He squared his shoulders. He took up 
his hat and went into the street again. He called a 
taxi and gave the address of the hotel where Chris- 
tine and her mother were staying. 


CHAPTER III 


THE TWO WOMEN 
HRISTINE was just crossing the hall of the 



hotel when Jimmy Challoner entered it. She 


saw him at once, and stood still with a little 
flush in her face. 

“I was just thinking about you,” she said. “I was 
just wondering if you would come and see us to-day; 
somehow I didn’t think you would.” 

She spoke very simply and unaffectedly. She was ' 
genuinely pleased to see him, and saw no reason for 
hiding it. “Have you had lunch?” she asked. 
“Mother and I are just going to have ours.” 

If he had given way to his own inclinations he 
would have gone without lunch — without everything. 
He was utterly wretched. The kindness of Chris- 
tine’s eyes brought a lump to his throat. He did not 
want her to be kind to him. She was not the woman 
he wanted at all. Why, oh, why was he here when 
his heart was away — God alone knew where — wkh 
Cynthia ! 

What was she doing? he was asking himself in an 
agony, even while he followed Christine across the 
hall to the dining-room; had she really meant him 
to accept that note of dismissal as final? or had it 
just been written in a moment of petulance? 

He had not meant to think about her; he had 


26 


THE TWO WOMEN 


27 


vowed to put her out of his thoughts for ever, to let 
her see that he would not wear the willow for her; 
and yet — oh, they were all very well, these fine 
resolves, but when a chap was utterly — confoundedly 
down and out 

He found himself shaking hands with Christine’s 
mother. 

“Jimmy hasn’t had any lunch,” Christine was say- 
ing. “So I asked him to have some with us.” 

Her voice sounded very gay; the little flush had 
not died out of her cheeks. 

“I am very pleased you have come,” said Chris- 
tine’s mother. She shook hands with Jimmy, and 
smiled at him with her mother-eyes. 

Jimmy wished they would not be so kind to him. 
It made him feel a thousand times more miserable. 

When he began to eat he was surprised to find that 
he was really hungry. A glass of wine cheered him 
considerably; he began to talk and make himself 
agreeable. As a matter of course, they talked about 
the old days at Upton House; Jimmy began to 
remember things he had almost forgotten; there had 
been an old stable-loft 

“Do you remember when you fell down the 
ladder?” Christine asked him laughingly. “And the 
way you bumped your head ” 

“And the way you cried,” Jimmy reminded her. 
“Didn’t she, Mrs. Wyatt?” 

Mrs. Wyatt laughed. 

“Don’t refer to me, please,” she said. “I am 
beginning to think that I never knew half what you 
two did in those days.” 


28 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Christine looked at Jimmy shyly. 

“They were lovely days,” she said with a sigh. 

“Ripping!” Jimmy agreed. He tried to put great 
enthusiasm into his voice, but in his heart he knew 
that he had long since outgrown the simple pleasures 
that had seemed so great to him then. He thought 
of Cynthia, and the wild Bohemianism of the weeks 
that had passed since he first got engaged to her; 
that was life if you pleased, with a capital letter. It 
seemed incredible that it was all ended and done 
with; that Cynthia wanted him no longer; that his 
place in her life was filled by another man; that he 
would never wait at the theatre for her any more; 

never He caught his breath on a great sigh. 

Christine looked at him with her brown eyes. She, 
at least, had never outgrown the old days; to her 
they would always be the most wonderful of her 
whole life. 

“And what are we going to do this afternoon?” 
Mrs. Wyatt asked when lunch was ended. 

“Anything you like,” said Jimmy. “I am entirely 
at your disposal.” 

“Mother always likes a nap after lunch,” said 
Christine laughing. “She never will stir till she has 
had it.” 

“Very well; then you and I will go off somewhere 
together,” said Jimmy promptly. “At least”— he 
looked apologetically at Mrs. Wyatt — “if we may?” 
he added. 

“I think I can trust you with Christine,” said 
Christine’s mother. “But you’ll be in to tea?” 

Jimmy promised. He did not really want to take 


THE TWO WOMEN 


29 


Christine out. He did not really want to do any- 
thing. He talked to Mrs. Wyatt while Christine 
put on her hat and coat. When they left the hotel 
he asked if she would like a taxi. 

Christine laughed. 

“Of course not. I love walking.’’ 

“Do you?” said Jimmy. He was faintly sur- 
prised. Cynthia would never walk a step if she 
could help it. He wondered at the difference in the 
two women. 

They went to the Park. It was a fine, sunny after- 
noon, cold and crisp. 

Christine wore soft brown furs, just the colour of 
her eyes, Jimmy Challoner thought, and realised that 
her eyes would be very beautiful to a man who liked 
dark eyes in preference to blue, but — thoughts of 
Cynthia came crowding back again. If only he were 

with her instead of this girl; if only Christine 

touched his arm. 

“Oh, Jimmy, look! Isn’t that — isn’t that Miss 
Farrow?” 

Her voice was excited. She was looking eagerly 
across the grass to where a woman and a man were 
walking together beneath the trees. 

Jimmy’s heart leapt to his throat; for a moment it 
seemed to stop beating. 

Yes, it was Cynthia right enough; Cynthia with 
no trace of the headache with which she had excused 
herself to him only that morning; Cynthia walking 
with — with Henson Mortlake. 

Christine spoke again, breathlessly. 

“Is it? Oh, is it Miss Farrow, Jimmy?” 


30 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“Yes,” said Jimmy hoarsely. 

Cynthia had turned now. She and the man at her 
side were walking back towards Jimmy and Chris- 
tine. 

As they drew nearer Cynthia’s eyes swept the 
eager face and slim figure of the girl at Jimmy’s side. 
There was the barest flicker of her lids before she 
raised them and smiled and bowed. 

Jimmy raised his hat. He was very pale; his 
mouth was set in unsmiling lines. 

“Oh, she is lovely!” said Christine eagerly. “I 
think she is even prettier off the stage than she is 
on, don’t you? Actresses so seldom are, but she — 
oh, don’t you think she is beautiful, Jimmy?” 

“Yes,” said Challoner. He hated himself because 
he could get nothing out but that monosyllable; 
hated himself because of the storm of emotion the 
sight of Cynthia had roused in his heart. 

She had looked calm and serene enough ; he 
wondered bitterly if she ever thought of the hours 
they had spent together, the times he had kissed her, 
the future they had planned. He set his teeth hard. 

And apparently the fact that her husband still 
lived was no barrier to her walking with Mortlake. 
He hated the little bounder. He 

“Who was that with her?” Christine asked. “I 
didn’t like the look of him very much. I do hope 
she isn’t going to marry him.” 

“She’s married already,” said Jimmy. He felt a 
sort of impatience with Christine; she was so — so 
childish, so — so immaturish, he thought. 

“And do you know her husband?” she asked. 
She turned her beautiful eyes to his pale face. 


THE TWO WOMEN 


3i 


“I’ve never seen him,” said Jimmy. “But I should 
think he’s a brute from what I’ve heard about him. 
He — he — oh, he treated her rottenly.” 

“What a shame!” Christine half turned and 
looked after Cynthia Farrow’s retreating figure. 
“Jimmy, wouldn’t you be proud of such a beautiful 
wife?” 

Jimmy laughed, rather a mirthless laugh. 

“Penniless beggars like me don’t marry beautiful 
wives like — like Miss Farrow,” he said with a sort 
of savagery. “They want men with pots and pots 
of money, who can buy them motor-cars and dia- 
monds, and all the rest of it.” His voice was hurt 
and angry. Christine looked puzzled. She walked 
on a little way silently. Then: 

“I shouldn’t mind how poor a man was if I loved 
him,” she said. 

Jimmy looked down at her. Her face was half- 
hidden by the soft brown fur she wore, but he could 
just get a glimpse of dark lashes against her pale 
cheek, and the dainty outline of forehead and cheek. 

“You won’t always think that,” he told her 
cynically. “Some day, when you’re older and wiser 
than you are now, you’ll find yourself looking at the 
£ s. d. side of a man, Christine.” 

“I never shall,” she cried out indignantly. 
“Jimmy, you are horrid!” 

But Jimmy Challoner did not smile. 

“Women are all the same,” he told her darkly. 

Oh, he was very, very young indeed, was Jimmy 
Challoner! 


CHAPTER IV 


JIMMY GETS NEWS 

T HERE was a letter from the “Great Horatio” 
on Jimmy’s plate the following morning. 
Jimmy looked at the handwriting and the 
foreign stamp and grimaced. 

The Great Horatio seldom wrote unless some- 
thing were the matter. He was a good many years 
older than Jimmy, and Jimmy held him in distinct 
awe. 

He finished his breakfast before he even thought 
of breaking the seal, then he took up the letter and 
carried it over with him to the fire. 

Jimmy Challoner was breakfasting in his dressing- 
gown. It was very seldom that he managed to get 
entirely dressed by the time breakfast was ready. 
He sat down now in a big chair and stuck his slip- 
pered feet out to the warmth. 

He turned his brother’s letter over and over dis- 
tastefully. What the deuce did the old chap want 
now? he wondered. He gave a sigh of resignation, 
and broke open the flap. 

He and the Great Horatio had not met for two 
years. 

Horatio Ferdinand Challoner, to give him his full 
name, was a man whose health, or, rather, ill-health, 
was his hobby. 


32 


JIMMY GETS NEWS 


33 


All his life he had firmly believed himself to be 
in a dying state; all his life he had lived more or 
less at Spas, or on the Riviera, or at health resorts 
of some kind or another. 

He was a nervous, irritable man, as unlike Jimmy 
as it is possible for two brothers to be. 

For the past two years he had been living in Aus- 
tralia. He had undertaken the voyage at the sug- 
gestion of some new doctor whose advice he had 
sought, and he had been so ill during the six weeks’ 
voyage that, so far, he had never been able to sum- 
mon sufficient pluck to start home again. 

Jimmy had roared with laughter when he heard; 
he could so well imagine his brother’s disgust and 
fear. As a matter of fact, it suited Jimmy very well 
that the head of the family should be so far removed 
from him. He hated supervision; he liked to feel 
that he had got a free hand; that he need not go in 
fear of running up against Horatio Ferdinand at 
every street corner. 

He read his brother’s closely written pages now 
with a long-suffering air. Jimmy hated writing let- 
ters, and he hated receiving them; most things bored 

I im in these days; he had been drifting for so long, 
nd under Cynthia Farrow’s tuition he would very 
kely have finally drifted altogether into a slack, 
othing-to-do man about town, very little good to 
imself or anyone else. 

I Horatio Ferdinand wrote : — 

Dear James, — (He hated abbreviations; he would never 
lillow people to call him “Horace”; his writing was cramped 


34 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


and formal like himself.) I have heard a rather disquieting 
rumour about you from a mutual friend, and shall be glad if 
you will kindly write to me upon receipt of this letter and 
inform me if there is any truth in the allegation that you are 
constantly seen in the company of a certain actress. I hardly 
think this can be so, as you well know my dislike of the stage 
and anything appertaining thereto. My health is greatly 
improved by my visit here, and all being well I shall prob- 
ably risk making the return voyage after Christmas. Upon 
second consideration, I shall be glad if you will cable your 
reply to me, as the mail takes six weeks, as you know. — 
Your affectionate brother. 

Jimmy crushed the letter in his hand. 

“Damned old idiot!” he said under his breath. 

He got up, and began striding about the room 
angrily. The tassels of his dressing-gown swung 
wildly at each agitated step; the big carpet slippers 
he wore flapped ungracefully. 

“Confounded old fathead.” 

Jimmy was flushed, and his eyes sparkled. He 
ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on 
end. After a few strides he felt better. He went 
back to the armchair and took up his brother’s letter 
once more. 

After a moment he laughed, rather a sore laugf, 
as if something in the stilted wording of the letter 
hurt him. 

What would he not have given now to be able to 
cable back: 

“Quite right; she is my wife.” 

But as it was 

“Let him think what he likes. I don’t care ? 


JIMMY GETS NEWS 


35 


hang,” was the thought in Jimmy Challoner’s mind. 

He sat there with his chin drooping on his breast, 
lost in unhappy thought. 

It was not yet two days since Cynthia had sent 
him away; it seemed an eternity. 

Did she miss him at all? did she ever wish she 
could see him? ever wish for one hour out of the 
happy past? Somehow he did not think so. Much 
as he had loved her, Jimmy Challoner had always 
known hers to be the sort of nature that lived solely 
for the present; besides, if she wanted him,. she had 
only got to send — to telephone. He looked across 
at the receiver standing idle on his desk. 

So many times she had rung him up; so many 
times he had heard her pretty voice across the wire: 

“Is that you, Jimmy boy?” 

He would never hear it again. She did not want 
him any more. He was — ugly word — jilted ! 

Jimmy writhed in his chair. That any woman 
should dare to so treat him! The hot blood surged 
into his face. 

It was a good sign — this sudden anger — had he 
but known it. When a man can be angry with a 
woman he has once loved he is already beginning to 
love her less; already beginning to see her as less 
perfect. 

Some one tapped at his door; his man entered. 

Costin was another bone of contention between 
Jimmy and the Great Horatio. 

“I never had a valet when I was your age,” so his 
brother declared. “What in the wide world you 
need a valet for is past my comprehension.” 


36 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

Jimmy had felt strongly inclined to answer that 
most things were past his comprehension, but thought 
better of it; he could not, at any rate, imagine his 
life without Costin. He knew in his heart that he 
had no least intention of sacking Costin, and Costin 
stayed. 

“If you please, sir,” he began now, coming for- 
ward, “Mr. Sangster would like to see you.” 

“Show him up,” said Jimmy. He rose to his feet 
and stood gnawing his lower lip agitatedly. 

How much did Sangster know, he wondered, about 
Cynthia? He would have liked to refuse to see him, 
but — well, they would have to meet sooner or later, 
and, after all, Sangster had been a good friend to 
him in more ways than one. 

Jimmy said: “Hallo, old chap!” with rather 
forced affability when Sangster entered. The two 
men shook hands. 

Sangster glanced at the breakfast-table. 

“I’m rather an early visitor, eh?” 

“No. Oh, no. Sit down. Have a cigarette?” 

“No, thanks.” 

There was little silence. Jimmy eyed his friend 
with a sort of suspicion. Sangster had heard some- 
thing. Sangster probably knew all there was to 
know. He shuffled his feet nervously. 

Sangster was the sort of man at whom a woman 
like Cynthia Farrow would never have given a sec- 
ond glance, if, indeed, she thought him worthy of a 
first. He was short and squarely built; his hair 
was undeniably red and ragged; his features were 


JIMMY GETS NEWS 


37 


blunt, but he had a nice smile, and his small, non- 
descript eyes were kind. 

He sat down in the chair Jimmy had vacated and 
looked up at him quizzically. 

“Well,” he said bluntly, “is it true?” 

Jimmy flushed. 

“True! what the ” 

The other man stopped him with a gesture. 

“Don’t be an ass, Jimmy; I haven’t known you all 
these years for nothing. ... Is it true that Cyn- 
thia’s chucked you?” 

“Yes.” Jimmy’s voice was hard. He stared up 
at the ceiling under scowling brows. 

Sangster said “Humph!” with a sort of growl. 
He scratched his chin reflectively. 

“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry,” he said after a 
moment. “It’s the best thing that’s ever happened 
to you, my son.” 

Jimmy’s eyes travelled down from the ceiling 
slowly; perhaps it was coincidence that they rested 
on the place on the mantelshelf where Cynthia’s por- 
trait used to stand. 

“Think so?” he said gruffly. “You never liked 
her.” 

“I did — but not as your wife. . . . She’s much 
more suited to Henson Mortlake — I always thought 
so. He’ll keep her in order; you never could have 
done.” 

Jimmy had been standing with his elbow on the 
mantelpiece; he swung round sharply. 

“Mortlake; what’s he got to do with it?” he asked 
fiercely. “What the deuce do you mean by dragging 


38 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

him in? It was nothing to do with Mortlake that 
she — she ” 

Sangster was looking at him curiously. 

“Oh! I understood — what was the reason, 
then?” he asked. 

Jimmy turned away. He found the other man’s 
eyes somehow disconcerting. 

“She’s married already,” he said in a stifled voice. 
“I — I always knew she had been married, of course. 
She made no secret of it. He — the brute — left her 
years ago; but last week — well, he turned up again. 

. . . She — we — we had always believed he was 
dead.” 

There was a little silence. Sangster was no longer 
looking at Jimmy; he was staring into the fire. Pres- 
ently he began to whistle softly. Jimmy rounded 
on him. 

“Oh, shut up !” he said irritably. 

Sangster stopped at once. After a moment : 

“And the — er — husband!” he submitted dryly. 
“You’ve — you’ve seen him, of course.” 

“No, I haven’t. If I did — if I did, I’d break 
every bone in his infernal carcase,” said Jimmy Chal- 
loner, between his teeth. 

He stared down at his friend with defiant eyes as 
he spoke. 

Sangster said “Humph!” again. Then: “Well, 
there’s as good fish in the sea as any that were 
caught,” he said cheerily. “Look at it philosophi- 
cally, old son.” 

Jimmy kicked a footstool out of his way. He 
walked over to the window, and stood for a moment 
with his back turned. Presently: 


JIMMY GETS NEWS 


39 


“If anyone asks you, you might as well tell them 
the truth,” he said jerkily. “I — don’t let them think 
that brute Mortlake ” 

He broke off. 

“I’ll tell ’em the truth,” said Sangster. 

He leaned over the fire, poking it vigorously. 

“What are you doing to-night, Jimmy?” he asked. 
“I’m at a loose end ” 

Jimmy turned. 

“I’m taking some people to the theatre — old 
friends ! Met them quite by chance the other night. 
Haven’t you heard me speak of them — the Wyatts?” 

“By Jove, yes!” Sangster dropped the poker un- 
ceremoniously. “People from Upton House. You 
used to be full of them when I first knew you, and 
that’s how many years ago, Jimmy?” 

“The Lord only knows!” said Jimmy dispiritedly. 
“Well, I’ve got a box for a show to-night, and asked 
them to come. Christine’s dead nuts on theatres. 
Remember Christine?” 

“I remember the name. Old sweetheart of yours, 
wasn’t she?” 

“When we were kids.” 

“Oh, like that, is it? Well, ask me to come along 
too.” 

“My dear fellow — come by all means.” 

Jimmy was rather pleased at the suggestion. 
“You’ll like Mrs. Wyatt — she’s one of the best.” 

“And — Christine?” 

“Oh she’s all right; but she’s only a child still,” 
said Jimmy Challoner with all the lordly superiority 
of half a dozen years. 


CHAPTER V 


SANGSTER TAKES A HAND 

ND so you and Jimmy were children to- 
gether,” said Arthur Sangster. 



The curtain had just fallen on the first 
act, and the lights turned up suddenly in the theatre 
had revealed Christine’s face to him a little flushed 
and dreamy. 

Sangster looked at her smilingly. Jimmy had 
called her a child; but he had not said how sweet a 
child she was, he thought, as his eyes rested on her 
dainty profile and parted lips. 

She seemed to wake from dreaming at the sound 
of his voice. She gave a little sigh, and leaned back 
in her chair. 

“Yes,” she said. “We used to play together when 
we were children.” 

“Such a long, long time ago,” said Sangster, half 
mockingly, half in earnest. 

She nodded seriously. 

“It seems ages and ages,” she said. She looked 
past him to where Jimmy sat talking to her mother. 
He might have sat next to her, she thought wistfully. 
Mr. Sangster was very nice, but — she caught a littk 
sigh between her lips. 


40 


SANGSTER TAKES A HAND 


4i 


“Jimmy has told me so much about you,” Sangster 
said. “I almost feel as if I have known you for 
years.” 

“Has he?” That pleased her, at all events. Her 
brown eyes shone as she looked at him. “What did 
he tell you?” she asked, interestedly. 

Sangster laughed. 

“Oh, all about Upton House, and the fine time 
you used to have there; all about the dogs, and an 
old horse named Judas.” 

She laughed too, now. 

“Judas — he died last year. He was so old, and 
nearly blind; but he always knew my step and came 
to the gate.” Her voice sounded wistful. “Jimmy 
used to ride him round the field, standing up on his 
back,” she went on eagerly. “Jimmy could ride any- 
thing.” 

“Jimmy is a very wonderful person,” said Sangster 
gravely. 

She looked rather puzzled. 

“Do you mean that?” she asked. “Or are you 
— are you joking?” 

He felt suddenly ashamed. 

“I mean it, of course,” he said gently. “I am very 
fond of Jimmy, though I haven’t known him as long 
as you have.” 

“How long?” she asked. 

He made a little calculation. 

“Well, it must be five years,” he said at length. 
“Or perhaps it is six; the time goes so quickly, I 
lose count.” 

“And do you live in London too?” 


42 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

“Yes; I live in an unfashionable part of Blooms- 
bury.” 

“Near Jimmy?” 

“No; Jimmy lives in the Temple.” 

“Oh.” 

It evidently conveyed nothing to her. 

“And do you know his brother — the great Hora- 
tio?” she asked laughingly. 

“I had the honour of meeting him once,” he an- 
swered with mock gravity. 

“So did I — years ago. Isn’t he funny?” 

“Very.” Sangster agreed. He thought it a very 
mild word with which to describe Horatio Ferdi- 
nand; he pitied Jimmy supremely for having to own 
such a relative. The stage bell rang through the 
theatre, the curtain began to swing slowly up. 

“We went to see Cynthia Farrow the other night,” 
Christine said. “Isn’t she lovely?” 

“I suppose she is!” 

“Suppose ! I think she’s the most beautiful woman 
I have ever seen,” Christine decla/ed vehemently. 
“Jimmy knows her, he says.” She turned her head. 
“Do you know her too?” 

“Yes— slightly.” 

“You don’t sound as if you like her,” she said 
quickly. 

He laughed in spite of himself. 

“Perhaps because she doesn’t like me,” he an- 
swered. 

“Doesn’t she?” Christine’s grave eyes searched 
his face. “I like you, anyway,” she said. 


SANGSTER TAKES A HAND 


43 

Sangster did not look at her, but a little flush rose 
to his brow. 

“Thank you,” he said, and his voice sounded, 
somehow, quite changed. 

As the curtain fell on the second act, he rose 
quietly from his seat and went round to where Jimmy 
stood. 

“Take my place,” he said in an undertone. 

Jimmy looked up. He had not been following the 
play; he had been thinking — thinking always of the 
same thing, always of the past few weeks, and the 
shock of their ending. 

He rose to his feet rather reluctantly. Sangster 
sat down beside Mrs. Wyatt. 

Once or twice he looked across to Christine. She 
and Jimmy were not talking very much, but there 
was a little smile on Christine’s face, and she looked 
at Jimmy very often. 

Jimmy sat with his chin in the palm of his hand, 
staring before him with moody eyes. Sangster felt 
a sort of impatience. What the deuce could the 
fellow ever have seen in Cynthia Farrow? he asked 
himself. Was he blind, that he could not penetrate 
her shallowness, and see the small selfishness of her 
nature? 

A pretty face and laugh, and an undoubted knowl- 
edge of men — they were all the assets she possessed; 
and Sangster knew it. But to Jimmy — Sangster 
metaphorically shrugged his shoulders as he looked 
at his friend’s moody face. 

How could he sit there next to that child and not 


44 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


realise that in his longing he was only grasping at a 
shadow? What was he made of that he saw more 
beauty in Cynthia Farrow’s blue eyes than in the 
sweet face of his boyhood’s love? 

Sangster was glad when the play was over; 
theatres always bored him. He did not quite know 
why he had invited himself to Jimmy’s box to-night. 
When they rose to leave he smiled indulgently at 
Christine’s rapt face. 

“You have enjoyed it,” he said. 

“Yes — ever so much. But I liked Miss Farrow 
and the play she was in better.” 

Jimmy turned sharply away; nobody answered. 

“We’re going on to Marnio’s to supper,” Jimmy 
said as they crossed the foyer. “Christine has never 
been there.” 

She looked up instantly. 

“No, I haven’t.” 

“It’s the place to see stage favourites,” Sangster 
told her. 

In his heart he was surprised that Jimmy should 
choose to go there. He thought it extremely prob- 
able that Cynthia Farrow and some of her numerous 
admirers would put in an appearance; but it w T as 
not his business, and he raised no objection. 

When they entered the long room he cast a swift 
glance round. She was not here yet, at all events; 
one could only hope that she would not come at all. 

Everything was new and wonderful to Christine. 
She was like a child in her delight. She sat in a 
corner of one of the great, softly cushioned sofas, 
and looked about her with wide eyes. 


SANGSTER TAKES A HAND 


45 


Jimmy sat beside her. Sangster had manoeuvred 
that he should. He and Mrs. Wyatt were opposite. 

The orchestra was playing a dreamy waltz. The 
long room was brilliantly lit, and decorated with pink 
flowers. 

Christine leaned across and squeezed her mother’s 
hand. 

“Oh, isn’t it just too lovely?” she said. 

Mrs. Wyatt laughed. 

“You will turn Christine’s head, Jimmy,” she said 
to Challoner. “She will find Upton House dull after 
all this gaiety.” 

Jimmy was slightly bored. It was no novelty to 
him. He had spent so many nights dining and sup- 
ping in similar places to Marnio’s. All the waiters 
knew him. He wondered if they were surprised to 
see him without Cynthia Farrow. For weeks past 
he and she had been everywhere together. He met 
Sangster’s quizzical eyes; he roused himself with an 
effort; he turned to Christine and began to talk. 

He told her who some of the people were at the 
other tables. He pointed out a famous conductor, 
and London’s most popular comedian. Christine 
was interested in everyone and everything. Her 
eyes sparkled, and her usually pale face was flushed. 
She was pretty to-night, if she had never been pretty 
before. 

“I suppose you come here often?” she said. She 
looked up into Jimmy’s bored young face. “I sup- 
pose it’s not at all new or wonderful to you?” 

He smiled. 

“Well, I’m afraid it isn’t; you see- 


He broke 


46 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

off ; he sat staring across the room with a sudden fire 
in his eyes. 

A man and woman had just entered. The woman 
was in evening dress, with a beautiful sable coat. 
Her hand was resting on the man’s arm. She was 
looking up at him with smiling eyes. 

Jimmy caught his breath hard in his throat. For 
a moment the gaily lit room swam before him — for 
the woman was Cynthia Farrow, and the man at her 
side was Henson Mortlake. 


CHAPTER VI 


JIMMY DEMANDS THE TRUTH 

S ANGSTER had been sitting with his back to the 
door by which Cynthia and her escort had 
entered. When he saw the sudden change in 
Jimmy Challoner’s face, he turned in his chair 
quickly. 

Cynthia was seated now. She was languidly draw- 
ing off her long white gloves. A waiter had taken 
her sable coat; without it the elaborate frock she 
wore looked too showy; it was cut too low in the 
neck. A diamond necklace glittered on her white 
throat. 

Sangster turned back again. Under cover of the 
table he gave Jimmy a kick. He saw that Christine 
had noticed the sudden change in his face. To hide 
his friend’s discomfort he rushed into speech. He 
tried to distract the girl’s attention; presently Jimmy 
recovered himself. 

Mrs. Wyatt alone had not been conscious of any 
disturbing element. 

She had lived all her life in the country, and her 
few visits to London had been exceedingly brief, and 
always conducted on the most severe of lines — a dull, 
highly respectable hotel to stay in, stalls for plays 
against which no single newspaper had raised a dis- 


47 


48 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


sentient voice, and perhaps a visit to a museum or 
picture gallery. 

It had only been under protest that she had con- 
sented to visit the suburban theatre at which Cynthia 
Farrow was playing. 

Under the guidance of Jimmy Challoner, London 
had suddenly been presented to her in an entirely 
fresh light. Secretly she was thoroughly enjoying 
herself, though once or twice she looked at Christine 
with rather wistful eyes. 

Christine was so wrapped up in Jimmy . . . and 
Jimmy ! — of course, he must know many, many other 
women far more attractive and beautiful than this 
little daughter of hers. She half sighed as she caught 
the expression of Christine’s eyes as they rested on 
him. 

Suddenly Jimmy rose. 

“Will you excuse me a moment? . . . There is a 
friend of mine over there. . . . Please excuse me.” 

Sangster scowled. He thought Jimmy was behav- 
ing like a weak fool. He would have stopped him 
had it been at all possible; but Jimmy had already 
left the table and crossed to where Cynthia was 
sitting. 

The sight of her in Mortlake’s company for the 
second time that day had scattered his fine resolu- 
tions to the winds. There was a raging fire of jeal- 
ousy in his heart as he went up to her. 

A waiter was filling her glass with champagne. 
Mortlake was whispering to her confidentially across 
the corner of the table. 

“Good evening,” said Jimmy Challoner. 


JIMMY DEMANDS THE TRUTH 


49 


He did his best to control his voice, but in spite of 
himself a little thrill of rage vibrated through it. 

Mortlake raised himself and half frowned. 

“Evening,” he said shortly;. 

Cynthia extended her hand; she was rather pleased 
than otherwise to see him. She liked having two 
strings to her bow; it gave her worldly heart an odd 
little pang as she met the fierceness of Jimmy’s 
eyes. . . . He was such a dear, she thought. 

Marmo’s was not a place where he could make a 
scene either, even supposing . . . she shot a quick 
glance at Mortlake. After all, it was rather unfor- 
tunate Jimmy should have seen them together — just 
at present, at any rate; it would not have mattered 
in a week or two’s time. She wondered if he had 
heard anything, if already he had discovered by 
some unforeseen means how she had lied to him? 
. . . She gave him one of the sweetest smiles. 

“Are you having supper here, Jimmy? I didn’t 
see you.” 

It was not the truth. She had seen him the mo- 
ment she entered, but she thought it more effective 
to pretend othenvise. 

“I am over there with friends,” said Jimmy curtly. 
He glanced across to the table he had just left, and 
met Christine’s eyes. 

Somehow he felt uncomfortable. He looked 
sharply away again, and down at the beautiful smil- 
ing face raised to his. 

“When may I come and see you?” he asked 
bluntly. 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


50 

He spoke quite distinctly; Mortlake must have 
heard every word. 

Cynthia looked nonplussed for a moment; then she 
laughed. 

“Come any time you like, my dear boy. ... I am 
always pleased to see you — any afternoon, you 
know.” 

She smiled and nodded. Jimmy felt that he had 
been dismissed. After a moment he walked away. 

His heart was a dead weight in his breast. He sat 
down again beside Christine. She turned to him 
eagerly. 

“Wasn’t that Miss Farrow? .... Oh, Jimmy, 
why didn’t you tell me?” 

Jimmy drained his wineglass before answering. 

“I forgot you were interested; I’m sorry. . . . 
She isn’t alone, you see, or — or I would introduce her 
— if you cared for me to, that is.” 

“I don’t think Miss Wyatt would care for Miss 
Farrow,” said Arthur Sangster quietly. 

Jimmy looked furious. Angry words rushed to his 
lips, but he choked them with an effort. 

“Narrow-minded old owl!” he said, half jokingly, 
half in earnest. 

Later, when the two men had left Mrs. Wyatt and 
Christine at their hotel, and were walking away to- 
gether, Jimmy burst out savagely: 

“What the devil do you mean about Christine not 
liking Cynthia? . . . It’s a gross piece of Imperti- 
nence to say such a thing.” 

“It’s the truth, all the same,” said Sangster imper- 
turbably. “The two girls are as different as chalk 


JIMMY DEMANDS THE TRUTH 51 

from cheese. Miss Wyatt would soon dislike Cyn- 
thia — they live in different worlds.” 

“Fortunately for Cynthia perhaps,” said Jimmy 
savagely. “For pure, ghastly dullness, recommend 
me to what is called the Test society’ .... Chris- 
tine is only a child — she always will be as long as 
she is tied to her mother’s apron-strings. I like 
Mrs. Wyatt awfully, but you must admit that we’ve 
had a distinctly dull evening.” 

There was a moment’s silence. 

“If you really think that,” said Sangster quietly, 
“I should keep away from them, and I should most 
certainly give up paying attention to Miss Wyatt.” 

Jimmy Challoner stopped dead. He turned and 
Stared at his friend. 

“What the devil are you talking about?” he de- 
manded. His face looked furious in the yellow light 
of a street lamp they were passing. “I pay atten- 
tion to Christine! Why” — he laughed suddenly — 
“She’s only a child.” 

“Very well, you know your own business best, of 
course; and Jimmy ” 

“Well ?” — ungraciously. 

Sangster hesitated; finally: 

“Did — did Cynthia say anything to you to-night? 
— anything special, I mean?” 

, Jimmy laughed drearily. 

“She said it was cold, or something equally in- 
teresting. She also said that I might call upon her 
any afternoon, and that she was always pleased to see 
her ‘friends.’ ” He accented the last word bitterly. 


52 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

“What did you expect her to say to me?” he in- 
quired. 

“Nothing; at least . . . you know what they are 
•saying in the clubs?” 

“What are they saying?” 

“That she is engaged to Mortlake.” 

Through the darkness he heard Jimmy catch his 
breath hard in his throat. 

“Of course, that may be only club talk,” he has- 
tened to add kindly. 

“I never thought it could be anything else,” said 
Jimmy with a rush. “I know it’s a lie, anyway. 
How can she be engaged to Mortlake, or any other 
man — if her husband is living?” 

“No,” Sangster agreed quietly. “She certainly 
cannot be engaged to any other man if her husband 
is still living.” 

There was an underlying meaning in his voice. 
Jimmy swung round savagely. 

“What are you trying to get at?” he asked. “If 
you know anything, tell me and have done with it.” 

“I don’t know anything; I am only repeating what 
I have heard.” 

“A pack of gossiping old women” — savagely. 

They walked a few steps silently. 

“Why not forget her, Jimmy?” said Sangster 
presently. “She isn’t the only woman in the world. 
Put her out of your life once and for all.” 

“It’s all very fine for you to talk . . . things are 
not forgotten so quickly. She’s done with me — I told 
you so — and ... oh, why the devil can’t you mind 
your own business?” 


CHAPTER VII 


LOVE AND POVERTY 

B UT in spite of his fine sounding words, Jimmy 
had not done with her, and the next after- 
noon — having shaken off Sangster, who 
looked in to suggest a stroll — he went round to Cyn- 
thia Farrow’s flat. 

She was not alone; half a dozen theatrical people, 
most of whom Jimmy knew personally, were loung- 
ing about her luxuriously furnished boudoir. They 
were all cheery people, whom Jimmy liked well 
enough as a general thing, but to-day their chatter 
bored him; he hardly knew how to contain himself 
for impatience. He made up his mind that he would 
stay as long, and longer than they did — that wild 
horses should not drag him away till he had spoken 
with Cynthia alone. 

She was very kind to him. It might have struck 
a disinterested observer that she was a little afraid 
of him — a little anxious to propitiate him; but none 
of these things crossed Jimmy’s mind. 

He adored her, and she knew it; he would do 
anything in the world for her, and she must know 
that too. Why, then, should she be in the very least 
afraid of him? 


53 


54 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

He found himself talking to an elderly woman with 
dyed hair, who had once been a famous dancer. She 
was pleasant enough company, but she had not yet 
realised that her youth was a thing of the past. She 
ogled Jimmy as if she had been eighteen, and sim- 
pered and giggled like a girl. 

She was the last of them all to leave. It struck 
Jimmy that Cynthia had purposely asked her to stay, 
but he could not be sure. Anyway, it did not matter 
to him. He meant to stay there all night or until he 
had spoken with her alone. 

As soon as the door had closed on the rustling 
skirts of the dancer’s juvenile frock, Jimmy rushed 
over to where Cynthia was sitting. 

She was smoking a cigarette. She threw it pet- 
tishly into the fire as he dropped on his knees beside 
her. 

“Cynthia,” said Jimmy Challoner hoarsely, “aren’t 
you — aren’t you just a little bit pleased to see me?” 
It was a very boyish appeal; Cynthia’s face softened 
before it. She laid a hand for a moment on his 
shoulder. 

“I am always pleased to see you, Jimmy; you 
know that. I hope we shall always be friends, even 
though — even though ” 

Jimmy caught her hand and covered it with kisses. 

“Darling 1” 

She moved restlessly. 

“Jimmy, you’re such a boy.” There was a hint of 
impatience now in her voice. “Aren’t you ever going 
to grow up?” 

He rose to his feet and moved away from her. 


LOVE AND POVERTY 


55 


The momentary flash of happiness had fallen from 
him; he felt very old and miserable as he stood 
leaning his elbow on the mantelshelf staring down at 
the fire. She no longer cared for him; something 
in her voice told him that as no actual words would 
have done. She had not wanted him to come here 
to-day. Even now she wished that he would go 
away and leave her. He suddenly remembered what 
Sangster had said last night. He turned abruptly, 
looking down at Cynthia. 

She was sitting up now, looking before her with 
puckered brows. One small foot tapped the floor 
impatiently. 

Jimmy moved nearer to her. 

“Do you know what they are saying in the clubs ?” 
he demanded. 

She raised her eyes, she shrugged her slim shoul- 
ders. 

“They are always saying something! What is it 
now?” 

But her voice was not so indifferent as she would 
have had it; her eyes were anxious. 

“They are saying that you are engaged to Mort- 
lake.” 

Jimmy’s eyes never left her face; it was a tragic 
moment for him. Cynthia’s white hands clasped 
each other nervously. 

“Are they?” she said. “How — how very amus- 
ing.” 

Her eyes had fallen now; he could only see the 
outline of darkened lashes against her cheek. 

He waited a moment, then he strode forward — » 


56 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

he covered the space between them in a stride ; he 
put a hand beneath her chin, forcing her to look at 
him. 

“Is it true?” he asked. “Is it true?” 

His voice ws?s strangled; his breath came tearing 
from between clenched teeth. 

Cynthia shivered away from him, back against the 
pile of silken cushions behind her. 

“Don’t hurt me, Jimmy; don’t hurt me,” she 
whimpered. 

He took her by the shoulders and shook her. “Is 
it true — is it true?” 

For a moment he thought she was going to refuse! 
to answer; then suddenly she dragged herself free. 
She started up, and stood facing him pantingly. 

“Yes” she said defiantly. “Yes, it is true ” 

And then the silence fell again, long and unbroken. 

It seemed an eternity to Jimmy Challoner; an 
eternity during which he stood there like a man in 
a dream, staring at her flushed face. 

The world had surely come crashing about him in 
ruins; for the moment, at least, he was blind and 
deaf to everything. 

When at last he could find his voice — 

“It was all — a lie then — about your — husband! — 
a lie — to — to get rid of me.” 

“If you like to put it that way.” 

Jimmy turned blindly to the door. He felt like a 
drunken man. He had opened it when she called 
his name; when she followed and caught his hand, 
holding him back. 

“Jimmy, don’t go like that — not without saying 


LOVE AND POVERTY 


57 

good-bye. We’ve been such friends — we’ve had such 
good times together.” 

She was sobbing now; genuine enough sobs they 
seemed. She clung to him desperately. 

“I always loved you; you must have known that 

I did, only — only Oh, I couldn’t bear to be 

poor! That was it, Jimmy. I couldn’t face being 
poor.” 

Jimmy stood like a statue. One might almost have 
thought he had not been listening. Then suddenly 
he wrenched his hand free. 

“Let me go, for God’s sake — let me go !” 

He left her there, sobbing and calling his name. 

She heard him go down the stairs — heard the sul- 
len slam of a distant door; then she rushed over to 
the window. 

It was too dark to see him as he strode away from 
the house; everything seemed horribly silent and 
empty. , 

Jimmy had gone; and Cynthia Farrow knew, as 
she stood there in the disordered room, that by send- 
ing him away she had made the greatest mistake of 
her selfish life. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT 

O UT in the night Jimmy Challoner stood for 
a moment in the darkness, not knowing 
where to go or what to do. 

He had had a bad shock. He could have borne 
it if she had only thrown him over for that other 
man ; but that she should have thought it worth while 
to lie to him about it struck him to the soul. She had 
made a fool of him — an utter and complete fool; he 
would never forgive her as long as he lived. 

After a moment he walked on. He carried his 
hat in his hand. The cool night air fanned his hot 
forehead. 

He had lost everything that had made life worth 
living; that was his first passionate thought. No- 
body wanted him — nobody cared a hang what be- 
came of him; he told himself that he could quite 
understand poor devils who jumped off bridges. 

He went into the first restaurant he came to, and 
ordered a neat brandy; that made him feel better, 
and he ordered a second on the strength of it. The 
first shock had passed; anger took its place. 

He would never forgive her; all his life he would 
never forgive her; she was not worth a thought. 
She had never been worth loving. 

58 


THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT 


59 


She was a heartless, scheming woman; little Chris- 
tine Wyatt had more affection in the clasp of her 
hand than Cynthia had in the whole of her beautiful 
body. 

The thought of Christine recalled Sangster’s 
words. 

Sangster was a fool ; he did not know what he was 
talking about. Christine and he had been sweet- 
hearts as children certainly, but that anything more 
could ever exist between them was absurd. 

But he began to remember the little flush that al- 
ways crept into Christine’s face when she saw him, 
the expression of her beautiful eyes ; and the memory 
gave him back some of his lost self-confidence. 
Christine liked him, at all events; Christine would 
never have behaved as Cynthia had done . . . 
Christine. . . . Jimmy Challoner hailed a passing 
taxi, and gave the address of the hotel where Chris- 
tine and her mother were staying. 

His desire for sympathy drove him there; his de- 
sire to be with someone who liked his company. 
He was bruised all over by the treatment he had re- 
ceived from Cynthia Farrow; he wanted balm poured 
on his wounds. 

The hall porter told him that Mrs. Wyatt was out, 
but that he thought the young lady 

“It’s Miss Wyatt I wish to see,” said Jimmy im- 
patiently. 

After a moment he was asked to come upstairs. 
He knew the Wyatts had a private sitting-room. 
Christine was there by the fire when he entered. 

“Jimmy,” she said eagerly. 


6o THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

Jimmy Challoner went forward with outstretched 
hand. 

“I hope you don’t mind my coming again so soon; 
but I was bored — thoroughly fed-up,” he explained 
stumblingly. 

Christine looked radiant. She had not yet learned 
to disguise her true feelings. Jimmy was still hold- 
ing her hand; she tried gently to free it. 

“Don’t — don’t take it away,” said Jimmy. The 
double dose of brandy and his own agitation had 
excited him; he drew her over to the fire with him; 
he hardly knew what he was doing. 

Suddenly: “Will you marry me, Christine?” he 
said. 

There was a sharp silence. 

Christine’s little face had grown as white as death; 
her soft brown eyes were almost tragic. 

“Marry you!” She echoed his words in a whis- 
per. “Marry you,” she said again. “Oh, Jimmy I” 
She caught her breath in something like a sob. “But 
— but you don’t love me,” she said in a pitiful whis- 
per. 

Jimmy lost his head. 

“I do love you,” he declared. “I love you most 
awfully . . . Say yes, Christine — say yes. We’ll be 
ever so happy, you and I ; we always got on rippingly, 
didn’t we?” 

Nobody had ever made love to Christine before, 
since the days when Jimmy Challoner had chased her 
round the garden for kisses, and she had always 
loved him. She felt giddy with happiness. This 
was a moment she had longed for ever since that 


THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT 61 

night in the suburban theatre when she had looked 
up into the stage box and seen him sitting there. 

Jimmy had got his arm round her now; he put his 
hot cheek to her soft hair. 

“Say yes, Christine,” he whispered; but he did not 
wait for her to say it. He could be very masterful 
when he chose, and with sudden impulsive impatience 
he bent and kissed her. 

Christine burst into tears. 

He had swept her oh her feet. A moment since 
she had never dreamed of anything like this; and 
now — now her head was on Jimmy Challoner’s 
shoulder, and his arm round her. 

“Don’t cry,” he said huskily. “Don’t cry — I 
didn’t mean to be a brute. Did I frighten you?” 

He was already beginning to realise what he had 
done. A little cold shiver crept down his spine. 

He had kissed this girl and asked her to marry 
him; but he did not love her. There was something 
still of the old boyish affection for her in his heart, 
but nothing more. Remorse seized him. 

“Don’t cry,” he begged again with an effort. 
“Would you like me to go away? . . . Oh, don’t 
cry, dear.” 

Christine dried her eyes. 

“It’s — it’s only be-because I’m so h-happy,” she 
said on the top of a last sob. “Oh, J-Jimmy — I do 
love you.” 

The words sounded somehow infinitely pathetic. 
Jimmy bit his lip hard. His arm fell from about her 
waist. 


62 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

“I — I’m not half good enough for you,” he stam- 
mered. 

He really meant that. He felt himself a perfect 
rotter beside her innocent whole-hearted surrender. 
Christine was looking at him with tearful eyes, 
though her lips smiled tremulously. 

“Oh, Jimmy — what will mother say?” she whis- 
pered. “And — and Mr. Sangster?” 

Jimmy laughed outright then. She was such a 
child. Why on earth should it matter what Sangster 
said? 

Christine did not know why she had spoken of 
him at all; but his kind face had seemed to float into 
her mind with the touch of Jimmy’s lips. She was 
glad she had liked him. He was Jimmy’s friend; 
now he would be her friend, too. 

There was an awkward silence. Jimmy made no 
attempt to kiss her again — he did not even touch her. 

He was thinking of the night when he had asked 
Cynthia to marry him. It had been in a taxi — com- 
ing home from the theatre. In imagination he could 
still smell the scent of the lilies she wore in her fur 
coat — still feel the touch of her hair against his 
cheek. 

That had been all rapture; this — he looked at 
Christine remorsefully. Poor child, she missed 
nothing in this strange proposal. Her eyes were like 
stars. As she met Jimmy’s gaze she moved shyly 
across to him and raised her face. 

“Kiss me, Jimmy,” she said. 

Jimmy kissed her very softly on the cheek. She 
put her hands up to his broad shoulders. < 


THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT 63 


“And — and you do — really — love me?” she asked 
wistfully. 

Jimmy could not meet her eyes, but — 

“Of course I do,” he said. 

* * * * * * 

It was late when Jimmy got back to his rooms that 
night. Mrs. Wyatt had insisted on him staying to 
dinner. There was no doubt that she was delighted 
at the turn affairs had taken, though she had said that 
it was soon — very soon. They must be engaged a 
few months at least, to make sure — quite sure. 

She kissed Jimmy — she kissed Christine; she said 
she was very happy. 

Jimmy felt a cad. He was thankful when the 
evening was ended. He drew a great breath of re- 
lief when he walked away from the hotel. 

He was an engaged man — and engaged to Chris- 
tine. He felt as if someone had snapped handcuffs 
on his wrists. 

Being Christine’s fiance would mean a very differ- 
ent thing from being engaged to Cynthia. 

The two girls lived very different lives, had beeni 
brought up very differently. 

Jimmy had liked the free and easy Bohemianism 
of the set in which Cynthia moved; he was not so 
sure about Christine’s. 

He was utterly wretched as he walked home. He 
had tied himself for life; there would be no slipping 
out of this engagement. 

Poor little Christine! she deserved a better man. 
He felt acutely conscious of his own unworthiness. 

He walked the whole way home. He was dog 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


64 

tired when he let himself into his rooms. Sangster 
rose from a chair by the fire. 

Jimmy stifled an oath under his breath as he shut 
the door. 

Sangster was the last man he wished to see at the 
present moment. He kept his eyes averted as he 
came forward. 

“Hallo!” he said. “Been here long?” 

“All the evening. Thought you’d sure to be in. 
Costin said you’d be in to dinner, he thought.” 

“I meant to . . . stayed with the Wyatts, 
though.” 

Jimmy helped himself to a whiskey. He knew that 
Sangster was watching him. His gaze got unbear- 
able. He swung round with sharp impatience. 
“What the devil are you staring at?” he demanded 
irritably. 

“Nothing. What a surly brute you’re getting. 
Got a cigarette?” 

Jimmy threw his case over. 

“By the way,” he said with overdone carelessness, 
“I’ve got some news for you. It’ll be in all the 
papers to-morrow, so I thought I might as well tell 
you first.” There was a little pause. 

“Well?” said Sangster shortly. 

Jimmy struck a match on the sole of his shoe. 

“I’m engaged,” he said, “to Christine.” 

It seemed a long, long time before Sangster moved 
or spoke. After a moment Jimmy Challoner swung 
round irritably. 

“Well, why don’t you say something?” he de- 
manded. “It’s a nice friendly way to receive news. 


THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT 65 

Why the devil don’t you say something?” he asked 
again angrily. 

Sangster said something then; something which 
Jimmy had never expected. 

“You ought to be shot!” 

And then the silence fell once more. 

Jimmy kicked at the blazing coals furiously; he 
had got very red. 

“You ought to be shot!” said Sangster again. He 
rose to his feet; he threw his unsmoked cigarette 
into the grate and walked towards the door. 

Jimmy turned. 

“Here — come back! Where are you going? Of 

all the bad-tempered beggars ” His face was 

abashed; there was a sort of wavering in his voice. 
He moved a step forward to overtake his friend. 

Sangster looked back at him with biting contempt 
in his honest eyes. 

“I’m fed up with you,” he said. “Sick to death 
of you and your abominable selfishness. I — oh, 

what’s the good of talking ?” He was gone 

with a slam of the door. 

Jimmy dragged a chair forward and flung him- 
self into it. His face was a study; now and then he 
gave a little choked exclamation of rage. 

What the deuce did Sangster mean by taking such 
an attitude? It was like his infernal cheek. It was 
no business of his if he chose to get engaged to 
Christine and half a dozen other girls at the same 
time. Anyone would think he had done a shabby 
trick by asking her to marry him; anyone would 


66 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


think that there had been something disgraceful in 
having done so; anyone would think 

“Damn it all!” said Jimmy Challoner. 

He took a cigarette and lit it; but it went out al- 
most immediately, and he flung it into the fire and 
lit another. 

In a minute or two he had thrown that away also; 
he lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. 

He was an engaged man — it was no novelty. He 
had been engaged before to a woman whom he 
adored. Now he was engaged to Christine, the girl 
who had been his boyhood’s sweetheart; a girl whom 
he had not seen for years. 

He wondered if she believed that he loved her. 
He sat up, frowning. He did love her — of course 
he did; or, at least, he would when they were 
married and settled down. Men always loved their 
wives — decent men, that is. 

He tried to believe that. He tried to forget the 
heaps and heaps of unhappy marriages which had 
been brought before his notice; friends of his own 
— all jolly decent chaps, too. 

But, of course, such a thing would never happen 
to him. He meant to play the game by Christine, 
she was a dear little thing. But the face of Cynthia 
would rise before his eyes; he could not forget the 
way she had cried that evening, and clung to him. 

He forgot how she had lied and deceived him; he 
remembered only that she loved him — that she ad- 
mitted that she still loved him. 

It was all the cursed money. If only the Great 
Horatio would come out of his niggardly shell and 


THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT 67 

stump up a bit ! It was not fair — he was as rich as 
Croesus; it would not hurt him to fork out another 
five hundred a year. 

Jimmy leaned his head in his hands; his head was 
aching badly now; he supposed it was the quantity 
of brandy he had drunk. He got up from his chair, 
and, turning out the light, went off to bed. But the 
darkness seemed worse than the light; it was crowded 
with pictures of Cynthia. He saw her face in a 
thousand different memories; her eyes drew and tor- 
tured him. She was the only woman he had ever 
loved; he was sure of that. He was more sure of it 
with every passing, wakeful second. 

He never slept a wink till it began to get light. 
When at last he fell asleep he had dreadful dreams. 
He woke up to the sound of Costin moving about the 
room. He turned over with a stifled groan. 

“Good morning, sir,” said Costin stolidly. 

Jimmy did not condescend to answer. Pale sun- 
light was pouring through the window. He closed 
his eyes ; his head still ached vilely. He got up late, 
and dressed with a bad grace. 

Fie ate no breakfast. He tried to remember 
whether he had promised to go round to the 
Wyatts’ that morning or not; everything was a blank 
in his mind except the one fact that he was engaged 
to Christine. 

He could remember that clearly enough, at all 
events. 

About eleven he took his hat and went out. He 
was annoyed because the sun was shining; he was 


68 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


annoyed because London was looking cheerful when 
he himself felt depressed beyond measure. 

Unconsciously he found his way to the Wyatts’ 
hotel; they were both out, for which he was grateful. 

“Miss Wyatt left a message for you in case you 
called, sir,” the porter told him. “She said would 
you come back to lunch?” 

Jimmy muttered something and walked away. He 
had no intention of going back to lunch; he wan- 
dered down Regent Street. Presently he found him- 
self staring in at a jeweller’s window. That re- 
minded him; he would have to buy Christine a ring. 

He wondered if Cynthia intended to keep the one 
he had given to her; it had cost him a fabulous sum. 
He had been hard up for weeks afterwards in con- 
sequence; and even then it was not nearly so fine 
as some she already had — as some Mortlake could 
afford to give her, for instance. 

He could not yet realise that this detestable thing 
had really happened to him. He made up his mind 
that if Christine would have him, he would marry her 
at once. There was nothing to wait for — and he 
wanted to let Cynthia see that he was not going to 
wear the willow for her. 

He turned away from the window and the dazzling 
rows of diamond rings and walked on. He remem- 
bered that he had not answered his brother’s letter; 
on the spur of the moment he turned into the nearest 
post office and sent a cable: 

Letter received. >Am engaged to Christine Wyatt, of 
Upton House. You remember her. — James. 


THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT 69 

He never signed himself “Jimmy” when he was 
writing to the Great Horatio. The cable, together 
with his brother’s address, cost him fifteen shillings; 
he grudged the expense, but he supposed it had to 
be sent. 

He wandered on again up the street. 

He had some lunch by himself, and went back to 
the Wyatts’ hotel. Christine came running down the 
stairs to meet him; her eyes were dancing, her face 
flushed. 

“Oh, Jimmy!” she said. She looked as if she ex- 
pected him to kiss her, he thought; after a moment 
he lightly touched her cheek with his lips. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to lunch,” he said stilt- 
edly. “I — er — I had an engagement. If you care 
to come out ” 

He knew he must sound horribly casual and in- 
different; he tried in vain to infuse some enthusiasm 
into his voice, but failed. 

Christine seemed to notice nothing amiss ; she 
assented eagerly when he suggested they should go 
and look at the shops. 

“You — er you must have a ring, you know,” he 
said. 

His heart smote him when he saw the way her lips 
trembled. He took her hand remorsefully. 

“I mean to make you very happy,” he said. He 
dropped her hand again and moved away. 

In his mind he kept comparing this with the first 
days of his engagement to Cynthia. He had not 
been tongue-tied and foolish then; he had not needed 


70 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


to be reminded that it was usual to kiss a girl when 
you were engaged to her; he — oh, confound it! 

Christine had gone for her hat and coat. 

“Mother is not at all well,” she said anxiously 
when she came back. “Do you know, Jimmy, I have 
thought sometimes lately that she really isn’t so well 
and strong as she tries to make me believe.” 

Jimmy was not impressed; he said that he thought 
Mrs. Wyatt looked Ai ; not a day older than when 
she had mothered him down at Upton House all 
those years ago. Christine was pleased; she adored 
her mother; she was quite happy as they left the 
hotel together. 

“You choose what you like,” he told her when they 
were in the jeweller’s shop. The man behind the 
counter thought him the most casual lover he had 
ever yet served. He looked at Christine with a sort 
of pity; she was so eager and happy. He brought 
another tray of diamond rings. 

Christine appealed to Jimmy Challoner. 

“I would much rather you chose one for me. 
Which one would you like best?” 

He shook his head. 

“I don’t mind — anything you like; you’ve got to 
wear it.” He saw a little swift look of amazement 
in her eyes; he roused himself. 

“Diamonds are nice,” he said with more enthu- 
siasm. 

Christine chose a single stone ; the ring just fitted, 
and she turned her little hand about delightedly to 
show Jimmy how the diamond flashed. 

She felt as if she were walking on air as they left 


THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT 


7i 

the shop. Now and then she glanced at Jimmy as 
if afraid that she had dreamed all this. 

She had loved him all her life ; she was sure that 
he, too, must have loved her, or he would never have 
asked her to be his wife. 

They had tea together. Over the buttered muffins 
Jimmy said suddenly: 

“Christine, why can’t we get married — soon, I 
mean !” 

Lovely colour dyed her face. 

“But — but we’ve only just got engaged,” she said 
breathlessly. 

“I know; but engagements are always short now- 
adays. If you are willing ” 

Apparently she was more than willing; she would 
have married him that minute had he suggested it. 
She said she must speak to her mother about it. 

“There is your brother to tell, too,” she said. 

“I cabled to him this morning,” Jimmy answered. 

“Did you!” Her eyes brightened. “How r sweet 
of you, Jimmy. Do you think he will be pleased?” 

“He’s never pleased about anything,” said Jimmy 
with a little laugh. 

He leaned an elbow on the corner of the table and 
looked into her eyes. 

“Say yes, Christine,” he urged. “If you want to 
marry me, Mrs. Wyatt won’t stand in the way; after 
all, you’ve known me all your life.” 

She flushed and stammered: 

“Jimmy — I — I think I’m a little afraid. Sup- 
posing — supposing you found out that — that you’d 
made a mistake ” Her eyes were troubled. 


72 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Jimmy’s face caught the flush from hers; for a 
moment his eyes wavered. 

“We’re going to be awfully happy,” he asserted 
then, almost violently. “If you love me ” 

“You know I do.” His hand fell carelessly to hers. 

“Very well, then say yes.” 

Christine said it. 

She thought everything perfect; she had never been 
so happy in all her life. If Jimmy did not love her 
tremendously, he would not be so anxious to be mar- 
ried, she told herself. Theirs was going to be one 
of those romantic marriages of which one reads in 
books. 

“Shall I speak to Mrs. Wyatt, or will you?” he 
asked her. 

“I think I would like to — first,” she told him. 

“Very well.” Jimmy was relieved. He was some- 
how a little afraid of Mrs. Wyatt’s kind mother 
eyes; he dreaded lest she might read deep down into 
his heart, and know what he was doing — guess that 
he was only marrying Christine because — because 
why? 

To forget another woman; to pay another woman 
out for the way she had treated him. That is how 
he would have answered that question had he been 
quite honest with himself; but as it was he evaded 
facing it at all. He merely contented himself with 
assuring Christine all over again that he was going 
to be very good to her and make her happy. 

“I’ll tell mother to-night,” Christine said when 
they went back to the hotel. “And I’ll write to you, 
Jimmy; I’ll ” she broke off. The porter had 


THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT 


73 

-come forward; he spoke to Jimmy in an undertone, 

“May I speak to you a moment, sir?” 

Christine moved away. 

“If you will ask the youg lady to wait, sir,” the 
man said again with a sort of agitation. 

A little flame of apprehension swept across 
Jimmy’s face. He spoke to Christine. 

“Wait for me a moment — just a moment.” He 
turned again to the man. “Well — well, what is it?” 

The man lowered his voice. 

“The lady, sir — Mrs. Wyatt; she was taken very 
ill an hour ago. The doctor is with her now. I was 
told to tell you as soon as you came in, so that you 
could warn the young lady, sir.” 

Christine had come forward. 

“Is anything the matter?” she asked. She looked 
from Jimmy to the porter wonderingly. Jimmy took 
her hand. 

“Your mother isn’t very well, dear.” The little 
word slipped out unconsciously. “There is a doctor 
with her now. . . . No, don’t be worried. I dare 
say it’s nothing. I’ll come up with you and see.” 

Christine fled up the staircase. She was already 
in her mother’s room when Jimmy overtook her. 
Through the half-closed door he could see the doctor 
and a woman in nurse’s dress. His heart began to 
race. Supposing Mrs. Wyatt were really ill; sup- 
posing The doctor came out to him as he stood 

on the landing. 

“Are you — are you a relative of Mrs. Wyatt’s?” 
he asked. 

Jimmy hesitated. 


74 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“I — I am engaged to Miss Wyatt,” he said. “I 
hope — I hope there is nothing serious the matter?” 

The doctor glanced back over his shoulder. 
Jimmy’s eyes instinctively turned in the same 
direction; he could see Christine on her knees beside 
the bed in the darkened room. 

“Mrs. Wyatt is dying, I regret to say,” the doctor 
said; he spoke in a low voice, so that his words 
should not reach Christine. “It’s only a question of 
hours at most. I’ve done all I can, but nothing can 
save her. It’s heart trouble, you know; she must 
have been suffering with it for years.” 

Jimmy Challoner stood staring at him, white- 
faced — stunned. 

“Oh, my God!” he said at last. He was terribly 
shocked; he could not believe it. He looked again 
to where Christine knelt by the bed. 

“Does she — Christine — who is to tell her?” he 
asked incoherently. 

The doctor shook his head. 

“I should suggest that you ” he began. 

Jimmy recoiled. “I ! Oh, I couldn’t. . . . 

I ” He broke off helplessly. He was thinking 

of the old days down at Upton House; the great 
kindness that had always been shown to him by 
Christine’s mother. There was a choking feeling in 
his throat. 

“I think you are the one to tell her,” said the 
doctor again, rather stiffly. 

Christine had heard their voices. She looked 
towards the door; she rose softly and came out to 
where the two men stood. 


THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT 


75 


Her eyes were anxious, but she was a hundred 
miles from guessing the truth. She spoke to Jimmy 
Challoner. 

“She’s asleep, Jimmy. The nurse tells me that 
she only fainted. Oh, I ought not to have left her 
when I knew she wasn’t well. I shall never forgive 
myself; but she’ll be all right now if she has a nice 
sleep, poor darling.” 

Jimmy could not meet her eyes; he bit his lip hard 
to hide its sudden trembling. 

The doctor came to Jimmy’s rescue. 

“Has your mother ever had similar attacks to this 
one, Miss Wyatt?” he asked. 

Christine considered. 

“She hasn’t been very well lately. She’s com- 
plained of being tired several times, and once she 

said she had a pain in her side ; but ” She broke 

off ; she looked breathlessly into his face. Suddenly 
she caught her breath hard, clutching at Jimmy 
Challoner’s arm. 

“Jimmy,” she said shrilly. 

Jimmy put his arm round her; his voice was all 
broken when he spoke. 

“She’s ill, Christine — very ill. Oh, my dear ” 

He could not go on ; he was very boyish still in many 
ways, and he felt more like breaking down and 
weeping with her than trying to comfort her and help 
her through the ordeal she had got to face. 

But Christine knew in a minute. She pushed him 
away; she stood with hands clasped together, staring 
before her through the half-closed door with wide, 
tragic eyes. 


76 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“Mother,” she said uncertainly; and then again, 
“Mother!” And now there was a wild sort of cry 
in her voice. 

“Christine,” said Jimmy huskily. He caught her 
hand; he tried to hold her back, but she broke away 
from him, staggered a few steps, and fell before 
either of the men could save her. 


CHAPTER IX 


MOTHERLESS 

S ANGSTER was writing letters in his rooms in 
the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury when 
Jimmy’s urgent message reached him. 

It was brought by one of the hotel servants, who 
waited at the door, yawning and indifferent, while 
Sangster read the hastily scrawled lines : 

For God’s sake come at once. Mrs. Wyatt died suddenly 
this afternoon, and there is no one to see to anything but me. 

Dead! Sangster could not believe it. He had 
admired Mrs. Wyatt tremendously that night when 
they all went to the theatre together; she had 
seemed so full of life, so young to have a grown-up 
daughter like Christine. Oh, surely there must be 
some mistake. 

‘Til come at once,” he said. He crushed Jimmy’s 
note into his pocket and went back for his hat. He 
called a taxi, and took the man from the hotel back 
with him; he asked him a few questions, but the man 
was uncommunicative, and apparently not very 
interested. Yes, the lady was dead right enough, so 
he had been told, he admitted. The gentleman — 
Mr. Challoner — seemed in a great way about it. 

77 


78 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Sangster was terribly shocked. He had quite 
forgotten the manner of his parting with Jimmy; he 
was only too willing and anxious to help him in any 
way possible. When they reached the hotel he was 
shown into the Wyatt’s private sitting-room. Jimmy 
was there at the telephone; he hung up the receiver 
as Sangster entered the room; he turned a white, 
worried face. 

“Awful thing, isn’t it?” he said. Even his voice 
sounded changed; it had lost its usual light- 
heartedness. 

“It’s given me a most awful shock,” he said again. 
“She was as well as anything last night; nobody had 

any idea ” He broke off with a choke in his 

voice. “Poor little Christine,” he said after a 
moment. “We can’t do anything with her. I won- 
dered if you — but I suppose you can’t,” he added 
hopelessly. 

“Where is Miss Wyatt?” Sangster asked. His 
kind face was very grave, but there was a steadiness 
in his eyes — the eyes of a man who might be trusted. 

“She’s in her room; we had to take her away 
forcibly from — from her mother. . . . You don’t 
know what a hell I’ve been through, old chap,” said 
Jimmy Challoner. 

Sangster frowned. 

“You!” he said with faint cynicism. “What 

about that poor little girl, then; she ” The 

door opened behind them, and Christine came in. 
She stood for a moment looking across at the two 
men with blank eyes, as if she hardly recognised 
them. Her face was white and haggard; there was 


MOTHERLESS 


79 


a stunned look in her eyes, but Sangster could see 
that she had not shed a tear. He went forward and 
took her hand. He drew her into the room, shutting 
the door quietly. Jimmy had walked over to the 
window; he stood staring into the street with misty 
eyes. He had never had death brought home to him 
like this before. It seemed to have made an up- 
heaval in his world; to have thrown all his schemes 
and calculations out of gear; life was all at once a 
thing to be feared and dreaded. 

He could hear Sangster talking to Christine be- 
hind him; he could not hear what he was saying; he 
was only too thankful that his friend had come. 
The last hours which he had spent alone with Chris- 
tine had been a nightmare to him. He had been so 
unable to comfort her; he had been at his wits’ end 
to know what to do or say. She was so utterly 
alone; she had no father — no brothers to whom he 
could send. He had wired to an uncle of whom she 
had told him, but it was impossible that anyone could 
arrive before the morning, he knew. 

Sangster was just the sort needed for a tragedy 
such as this; was a brick — he always knew what to 
say and do. 

The room seemed very silent; the whole world 
seemed silent too, as if it had stopped aghast at this 
sudden tragedy which had been enacted in its midst. 

Then Christine began to sob; the most pathetic, 
loneliest sound it was through the silent room. 
Jimmy felt himself choking — felt his own eyes 
blurred and misty. 

He turned impulsively. Christine was huddled in 


8o 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


one of the big chairs, her pretty head down-flung oil 
an arm. Sangster stood beside her, his hand on her 
shoulder. 

Jimmy never looked at his friend, or he might 
have learned many, many things from the expression 
of his eyes just then as he moved back silently and 
let Jimmy pass. 

He fell on his knees beside Christine. For the 
moment, at least, everything else in the world was 
forgotten between them; she was just a motherless, 
broken girl sobbing her heart out — just the girl he 
had once loved with all a boy’s first ardour. He put 
his arms round her and drew her head down, so that 
it rested on his shoulder, and her face was hidden in 
his coat. 

“Don’t cry, my poor little girl,” said Jimmy 
Challoner, with a break in his own young voice. 
“Oh, Christine, don’t cry.” 

Sangster, watching, saw the way her arms crept 
upwards till they were clasped round Jimmy’s neck; 
saw the way she clung to him; heard the anguish in 
her voice as she said: 

“I’ve got no one now, Jimmy; no one at all.” 

Jimmy looked up, and, across her bowed head, his 
eyes met those of his friend with a sort of defiance 
in them. 

“You’ve got me, Christine,” he said with a new 
sort of humbleness. 


CHAPTER X 


JIMMY HAS A VISITOR 

“T’M going to be married, Costin,” said Jimmy 

■ Challoner. 

He was deep in an arm-chair, with his legs 
stuck up on the seat of another, and he was blowing 
rather agitated puffs of smoke into the room from 
an expensive cigar, for which he had not paid. 

Costin was mixing a whisky-and-soda at the table, 
and just for an instant the syphon jerked, sending a 
stream of soda-water over the cloth. 

“Yes, sir; certainly, sir; to — to Miss Farrow, I 
presoom, sir.” 

There was a momentary silence, then: 

“No, you fathead,” said Jimmy Challoner curtly. 
“To Miss Wyatt — a Miss Christine Wyatt; and I’m 
going to be married the day after to-morrow.” 

“Yes, sir; I’m sure I wish you every happiness, 
sir. And if I may ask, sir — will you still be requir- 
ing my services?” 

Jimmy stared. 

“Of course I shall,” he said blankly. “Who the 
police do you think is going to look after my clothes, 
and shave me?” He brought his feet down from 
the opposite chair and sat up. “I’m going to be 
married in London — quietly,” he said; he did not 
81 


82 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


look at Costin now. “Miss Wyatt has lost her 
mother recently — I dare say you know. I — er I 
think that is all,” he added, with a sort of embar- 
rassment, as he recalled the times, the many times, 
he had made a confidant of Costin in the days before 
he was engaged to Cynthia; the many little gifts that 
Costin had conveyed to her; the notes he had 
brought back. Jimmy stifled a sigh in his broad 
chest; he rose to his feet. 

“And, Costin ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“There is no need to — to mention — Miss Farrow 
— if — you understand?” 

“Perfectly, sir.” 

“Very well; get out,” said Jimmy. 

Costin obeyed imperturbably. He knew Jimmy 
Challoner very well; and in this case, at all events, 
the master was certainly no hero to the valet. Left 
alone, Jimmy subsided again into his chair with a 
sigh. The day after to-morrow! it seemed as if it 
must be the end of everything; as if he would be 
brought up sharply against an unscalable brick wall 
when his wedding-day came. 

Poor little Christine! she had changed very much 
during the past few days; she looked somehow older 
— more grown-up; she smiled less frequently, and 
she was very quiet — even with Jimmy. And she 
loved Jimmy; she seemed to love him all the more 
now that he was all that was left to her. Jimmy 
realised it, too, and it worried him. He meant to 
be good to her — he wanted to be good to her; but 
* — involuntarily he glanced towards the blank space 


JIMMY HAS A VISITOR 83 

on the mantelshelf where Cynthia Farrow’s portrait 
used to stand. 

He had not seen her since that night when she 
had told him the truth; when she had told him that 
she had thrown him over because he was not rich 
enough, because she valued diamonds and beautiful 
clothes more than she valued his love. He won- 
dered if she knew of his engagement; if she had been 
told about it, and if so — whether she minded. 

So far nobody had seemed particularly pleased 
except the Great Horatio, who had cabled that he 
was delighted, and that he was making immediate 
arrangements to increase Jimmy’s allowance. 

Jimmy had smiled grimly over that part of the 
message; it was hard luck that the Great Horatio 
should only shell out now, when — when — he pulled 
up his thoughts sharply; he tried to remember that 
he was already almost as good as a married man; 
he had no right to be thinking of another woman; 
he was going to marry Christine. 

The door opened; Costin reappeared. 

“Please, sir — a lady to see you.” 

“What!” 

Jimmy stared increduously. “A lady to see me? 
Rot! It’s some mistake ” 

“No, sir, begging your pardon, sir,” said Costin 
stolidly. “It’s — if you please, sir, it’s Miss Far- 
row.” 

Jimmy stood immovable for a moment, then he 
turned round slowly and mechanically, almost as if 
someone had taken him by his shoulders and forced 
him to do so. 


8 4 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“Miss — Farrow !” he echoed Costin’s apologetic 
utterance of Cynthia’s name expressionlessly. “Miss 
— Farrow . . The colour rushed from his brow 
to chin; his heart began to race just as it used to in 
the old days when he had called to see her, and was 
waiting in her pink drawing-room, listening to the 
sound of her coming steps on the landing outside* 
After a moment: 

“Ask — ask her to come in,” he said. 

He turned back to the mirror; mechanically he 
passed a hand over the refractory kink in his hair; 
he looked at his tie with critical eyes; he wished 
there had been time to shave, he wished — and then 
he forgot to wish anything more at all, for the door 
had opened, and Cynthia herself stood there. 

She was beautifully dressed; he realised in a 
vague sort of way that she had never looked more 
desirable, and yet for the life of him he could not 
have told what she was wearing, except that there 
was a big bunch of lilies tucked into the bosom of her 
gown. 

She held out her hands to him; she was smiling 
adorably. 

“Jimmy,” she said. 

Jimmy’s first wild instinct was to rush forward 
and take her in his arms; then he remembered. He 
backed away from her a step; he began to tremble. 

“What — what have you come here for?” he 
stammered. 

She laughed. 

“Jimmy, how rude! You don’t look a bit pleased 


JIMMY HAS A VISITOR 85 

to see me. You — oh, Jimmy, I thought you’d be so 
happy — so delighted.” 

She came across to him now; she slipped a hand 
through his arm; she leaned her cheek against his 
coat-sleeve ; the scent of the lilies she wore mounted 
intoxicatingly to his head. 

He tried not to look at her — he tried to stiffen his 
♦arm beneath her cheek; but his heart was thumping 
— he felt as if he were choking. 

There w^as a moment of silence, then she looked 
up at him with a little spark of wonderment in her 
eyes. 

“You’re not going to forgive me — is that it?” she 
asked blankly. 

She moved away from him; she stood just in front 
of him, looking into his face with the witching eyes 
he knew so well. 

He would not look at her; he stared steadily over 
her head at the door beyond; he tried to laugh. 

“It’s not a question of forgiveness — is it?” he 
asked jerkily. “You — you chucked me up. You — 
you told me a lie to get rid of me. It — it isn’t a 
question of forgiveness, do you think?” 

She looked nonplussed, then she smiled. She took 
Jimmy’s face between her hands, holding it so that 
he was forced to meet her eyes; she stood on tiptoe 
and softly kissed his chin. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and now there was a very 
genuine ring of earnestness in her voice. “I’m more 
sorry than I can ever say. Forgive me, Jimmy; I’ve 
been punished enough. I — oh, if you knew how 
miserable I’ve been.” 


86 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Jimmy stood like a man turned to stone; he stared 
at her with a sort of dread in his eyes. There were 
tears in hers; one big tear fell from her long lashes, 
and splashed down on to the lilies she wore. 

After a moment he spoke with difficulty. 

“Are you . . . what are you trying to say to 
me ?” 

Her hands fell to her sides; she looked down with 
a touch of shame. 

“I’m trying to say that I’m sorry; I’m trying to 
tell you that I — I don’t mind how poor you are. I 
thought I did, but — oh, Jimmy, I’d rather have you, 
and no money at all, than — than be as rich as Croesus 
with — with any other man.” 

“Cynthia!” Jimmy spoke her name in a stifled 
voice; she raised her eyes quickly. There was none 
of the passionate joy in his face which she had so 
confidently expected; none of the passionate joy in 
his voice which her heart told her ought to be there. 
Suddenly he turned aside from her; he put his arm 
down on the mantelshelf, hiding his face in it. 

“Jimmy.” She whispered his name wfith a sort of 
fear. “Jimmy — what — what is it? Oh, you are 
frightening me. I thought you would be so glad — * 
so glad.” She caught the limp hand hanging 
against his side; she laid her soft cheek to it. 

Jimmy Challoner tore himself free with a sort of 
rage. 

“It’s too late — too late,” he said hoarsely. 

“Too — late!” She stared at him, not understand- 
ing. “What — what do you mean? That — that you 


JIMMY HAS A VISITOR 87 

can’t forgive me ; that — that you’re so angry that — 
that ” 

He swung round, white-faced and quivering. 

“It’s too late,” he said again hopelessly. “I’m 
engaged to be married. I — oh, why did you ever 
send me away?” he broke out in anguish. 

Her face had paled, but she was still far enough 
from understanding. 

“Engaged to be married — you! . . . To whom, 
Jimmy?” 

He answered her in a voice of stifled rage. 

“It’s your doing — all your fault. You nearly 
drove me mad when you sent me away, and I — 

I ” There was a long pause. “I told you that 

I met some friends in the theatre that night when 
you . . . well, I’m engaged to her — to Christine. 
I’ve known her all my life. I — I was utterly 
wretched ... I asked her to marry me. We’re — 
we’re going to be married the day after to-morrow.” 

Twice she tried to speak, but no words would 
come. She was as white now as the lilies she wore; 
her eyes had a stunned, incredulous look In them. 
She had never even remotely dreamed of this; it was 
like some crude nightmare. . . . Jimmy engaged! 
Jimmy who had sworn a thousand times never to 
love another woman; Jimmy who had been heart- 
broken when she sent him away. She broke out in 
vehement protest: 

“Oh, no— no!” 

“It’s true,” said Jimmy obstinately. “It’s true.” 

For the moment he was hardly conscious of any 
feeling except a sort of shock. It had never once 


88 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


crossed his mind that she would come back to him; 
he could not believe even now that she was in 
earnest; he found himself remembering that night in 
her dressing-room at the theatre when she had lied 
to him, and pretended, and deceived him. Perhaps 
even this was all part of the play-acting; perhaps she 
was just trying to win him back again, to make a 
fool of him afresh. 

Cynthia broke out again. 

“Well, this girl must be told; she can’t care for 
you. You say you haven’t seen her for years. It’s 
— it’s absurd!” She took a step towards him. “You 
must tell her, Jimmy; you must explain to her. She 
. . . surely there is such a thing as buying her off.” 

The vulgarity of the expression made him wince; 
he thought of Christine with a sort of shame. 

She would be the last girl in the world, he knew, 
to wish to hold him to a promise which he was un- 
willing to fulfil; he thought of her pale face and 
wistful brown eyes, and he broke out strenuously: 

“It’s impossible . . . it’s too late ... we are 
to be married on Thursday; everything is fixed up. 
I — oh, for God’s sake, Cynthia, don’t go on talking 
about it. You drove me to do what I have done. 
It’s too late — I can’t go back on my word.” 

She stood twisting her fingers agitatedly. Sud- 
dently she went to where he stood; she tried to 
put her arms round his neck, but he resisted fiercely. 
He held her wrists; he kept his head flung back be- 
yond her reach. 

“It’s too late, Cynthia — do you hear! I’ve given 
my word; I’m not going back on it now. You can’t 


JIMMY HAS A VISITOR 89 

blame me. . . . I — I’d have given my life for this 
to have happened before — just a few days ago; but 
now ” 

“You don’t love me,” she accused him passion- 
ately; she began to cry. “You said you would never 
love any woman but me as long as you lived. I 
thought you cared more for me than I do for you, 
but now I know you don’t — you don’t care so much. 
If you did you would give up this — this girl, who- 
ever she is, without a single thought.” Her voice 
dropped sobbingly. “Oh, Jimmy — Jimmy, don’t 
be cruel ; you can’t mean it. I love you so much . . . 
you belonged to me first.” 

“You sent me away; you lied to me and deceived 
me. 

He felt that he must keep on reminding himself of 
it; that he dared not for one instant allow himself to 
forget everything but how beautiful she was, and 
how much he wanted her. 

She fell back from him; she dropped into a chair, 
hiding her face, and sobbing. 

There was a touch of the theatrical in her atti- 
tude, but Jimmy was too miserable to be critical. He 
only knew that she was miserable and on his account, 
and that he loved her. 

He broke out agitatedly: 

“Don’t, Cynthia — don’t cry; you break my heart. 
. . . Oh, for God’s sake, don’t cry.” 

“You don’t care how miserable I am,” she sobbed. 
“You — you haven’t got a heart to break, if you can 
stand there like a stone and tell me that it’s too late. 
It’s not too late; you’re not married yet. Tell her 


9 o THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

the truth; oh! if you love me tell her the truth, 
Jimmy.” 

Jimmy was looking at her, but for a moment he 
only saw the big sitting-room at the hotel where 
Mrs. Wyatt had died, and the crushed little figure of 
Christine herself, as he had knelt beside her and 
drew her head to his shoulder. 

“Oh, Jimmy, I’ve got no one now — no one.” Her 
voice came back to him, a mournful echo; and his 
own husky answer: 

“You’ve got me, Christine!” 

How could he go back on that — how could he add 
to her weight of sorrow? 

“She’s got nobody but me in all the world,” he 
said simply; he was looking at Cynthia now, as if he 
found it easier. “She has just lost her mother, and 

she’s the loneliest little thing ” he stopped 

jaggedly. 

For a moment she did not answer; she had 
stopped sobbing; she was carefully wiping her eyes; 
she got up and walked over to the glass above the 
mantelshelf; she looked at herself anxiously. 

“Well, I suppose it’s good-bye, then,” she said 
heavily; her voice dragged a little. She picked up 
her gloves and a silver chain-bag which she had 
thrown down on the table; she turned towards the 
door. “Good-bye, Jimmy.” 

Jimmy Challoner did not answer; he could not 
trust his voice. He walked past her and put his 
fingers on the door handle to open it for her; he was 
Very white, and his eyes were fierce. 

Cynthia stood still for an instant; she was quite 


JIMMY HAS A VISITOR 91 

close to him now. “Good-bye,” she said again 
faintly. 

He tried to answer, but could not find his voice; 
their eyes met, and the next moment she was in his 
arms. 

He never knew how it happened; never knew if he 
made the first move towards her, or she to him; but 
he held her fast, kissing her as he had never kissed 
little Christine — her eyes, her hair, her warm, 
tremulous lips. 

“You do love me, then, after all?” she whispered. 

Jimmy let her go; he fell back against the door, 
hiding his eyes. 

“You know I do,” he said hoarsely. 

He hated himself for his momentary weakness; he 
could not bear to look at her; when she had gone, he 
sat down in the big arm-chair and hid his face in his 
hands. 

His pulses were racing; his head felt on fire. 

The day after to-morrow he was to marry 
Christine. He had given his promise to her, and 
he knew that it was too late to draw back — too late 
to break her heart. And yet there was only one 
woman in all the world whom he loved, and whom 
he wanted — the woman from whom he had just 
parted; the woman who was even then driving away 
down the street with a little triumphant smile on her 
carefully reddened lips. 


CHAPTER XI 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 

“ ... to love, cherish, and to obey till death us 
do part” 

Christine raised her soft brown eyes shyly and 
looked at Jimmy Challoner. 

A ray of sunlight, piercing the stained glass 
window above the altar, fell on her face and slim 
figure; her voice was quite clear and steady, though 
a little sad perhaps, as she slowly repeated the words 
after the rather bored-looking clergyman. 

Jimmy had insisted on being married in a parish 
where neither of them was known; he had got a 
special licence, and there was nobody in the church 
but the verger and Sangster, and a deaf uncle of 
Christine’s, who thought the whole affair a great 
bother, and who had looked up a train to catch back 
home the very moment that Christine should have 
safely passed out of his keeping into her husband’s. 

He bade them “good-bye” in the vestry; he kissed 
Christine rather awkwardly, and said that he hoped 
she would be happy; his voice seemed to imply a 
doubt. He shook hands with Jimmy and called him 
a lucky dog; he spoke like a man who hardly realises 
what he is saying; he shook hands with Sangster 
and hurried away. 


92 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


93 


They heard him creaking down the aisle of the 
church, and the following slam of the heavy door 
behind him; there was a little awkward silence. 

The clergyman was blotting Christine’s new name 
in the register; he looked up at her with short- 
sighted eyes, a quill pen held between his teeth. 

“Would you — er — care to have the pen, Mrs. — er 
— Challoner?” 

He had a starchy voice and a starchy manner. 

Christine was conscious of a sudden feeling of 
utter home-sickness; everybody was so stiff and 
strange; even Jimmy — dearly as she loved him — 
seemed somehow like a stranger in his smart coat 
and brand-new tie, and with the refractory kink in 
his hair well flattened down by brilliantine. 

She wanted her mother; she wanted her mother 
desperately; she wanted to be kissed and made much 
of by someone who really wanted her to be happy. 
Tears smarted in her eyes, but she would not let 
them fall. Her throat ached with repressed sobs as 
she took the brand-new quill pen from the white 
hand extended to her, with a little shy: 

“Thank you.” 

Sangster came forward. 

“Shall I take care of it for you, Mrs. Challoner? 
We must tie a white bow round it, shall we? You 
will like to keep it, I am sure.” 

Chirstine turned to him eagerly. He spoke so 
kindly; his eyes looked at her with such sympathy. 
A big tear splashed down on the bosom of her black 
frock. 

She was all in black, poor little Christine, save for 


94 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


white gloves, and some white flowers which Jimmy 
had sent her to carry. She tried to smile and answer 
Sangster when he spoke to her, but the words died 
away in her throat. 

The gloomy London church depressed her; her 
own voice and Jimmy’s had echoed hollowly behind 
them as they made their responses; her hand had 
shaken badly when she gave it to him to put on her 
wedding ring. 

She was married now; she looked at Jimmy 
appealingly. 

Jimmy was very flushed; when he spoke, his voice 
sounded high and reckless. Christine heard him 
asking Sangster to come and have some lunch with 
them; he seemed most anxious that Sangster should 
come. Christine listened with a queer little sinking 
at her heart; she had wanted to be alone with 
Jimmy; she had so looked forward to this — their 
first meal together as husband and wife; but she 
bravely hid her disappointment. 

“Do come; please do,” she urged him. 

They all left the church together. Christine 
walked between the two men down the long aisle; 
she did not feel a bit as if she had been married; 
she wondered if soon she was going to wake up and 
find that she had dreamt it all. 

There was a taxi waiting at the church door. She 
got in, and both men followed. Jimmy sat beside 
her, but he talked to Sangster all the way. He was 
terribly nervous; he kept twisting and torturing the 
new pair of grey gloves which he had never put on; 
they were all out of shape and creased long before 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


95 

the taxi stopped again at the quiet restaurant where 
they were to lunch. 

Christine looked at Jimmy. 

“What can I do with my flowers? I — everybody 
will know if I take them in with me.” She blushed 
as she spoke. Jimmy’s own face caught the reflec- 
tion from hers. 

“Oh, leave ’em in the taxi,” he said awkwardly. 
“I’ll tell the chap to come back for us in an hour.” 

He surreptitiously stuffed the new gloves into a 
coat pocket; he tried to look as if there were nothing 
very unusual about any of them as he led the way in. 

Christine hardly ate anything; she was shy and 
unhappy. The kind efforts which Sangster made to 
make her feel at her ease added to her embarrass- 
ment. She missed her mother more and more as the 
moments fled away; she was on the verge of a break- 
down when at last the interminable meal was ended. 

She had hardly touched the champagne with 
which Jimmy had insisted on filling her glass; there 
were two empty bottles on the table, and she 
wondered mechanically who had drunk it all. 

Sangster bade her “good-bye” as they left the 
restaurant; he held her hand for a moment, and 
looked into her eyes. 

“I hope you will be very happy; I am sure you 
will.” 

Christine tried to thank him; she wished he were 
not going to leave them; she had not wanted him to 
come with them in the first place, but now she was 
conscious only of a desire to keep him there. Her 
heart pounded in her throat as he turned away; she 


9 6 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

looked apprehensively at Jimmy — her husband now. 

He was looking very smart, she thought with a 
little thrill of pride; she was sure he was quite the 
best-looking man she had ever seen. He was talk- 
ing to Sangster, but she could not hear what either 
of them was saying. 

“Be good to her, Jimmy . . . she’s such a child.” 
That was what Sangster was saying; and Jimmy — 
well, Jimmy flushed uncomfortably as he answered 
with a sort of bravado: 

“Don’t be a silly old ass! Do you think I’m 
going to beat her?” 

Then it was all over, and Christine and Jimmy 
were driving away together. 

Jimmy looked at her with a nervous smile. 

“Well — we’re married,” he said eloquently. 

“Yes.” She raised her beautiful eyes to his face; 
her heart was throbbing happily. Unconsciously she 
made a little movement towards him. 

Jimmy put out his hand and let down the window 
with a run. 

“Jove! isn’t it hot!” he said. 

He was beginning to wonder if he had drunk too 
much champagne; he passed his silk handkerchief 
over his flushed face. 

“I thought it was rather cold,” said Christine 
timidly. 

He frowned. 

“Does that mean that you want the window up?” 
He did not mean to speak sharply; but he was 
horribly nervous, and Sangster’s parting words had 
not improved matters at all. 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


97 


Christine burst into tears; she was overstrung and 
excited; her nerves were all to pieces; she sobbed 
for a moment desolately. 

Jimmy swore under his breath; he did not know 
what to do. After a moment he touched her — he 
pressed his silk handkerchief into her shaking hands. 

“Don’t cry,” he said constrainedly. “People will 
think I’ve been unkind to you . . . already!” he 
added with a nervous laugh. 

She mopped her eyes obediently; she felt 
frightened. 

The horrible feeling that Jimmy was a stranger 
came back to her afresh. Oh, was this the kind boy 
lover who had been so good to her that day her 
mother died — the kind lover who had taken her in 
his arms and told her that she had him, that he 
would never leave her? 

She longed so for just one word — one sign of 
affection; but Jimmy only sat there, hot and uncom- 
fortable and silent. 

After a moment: 

“Better?” he asked. 

“Yes . . .” She tried to control herself; she 
stammered a little shamed apology. “I’m so sorry 
— Jimmy.” 

He patted her hand. 

“That’s all right.” 

She took courage ; she looked into his face. 

“And you do — oh, you do love me?” she 
whispered. 

“Of course I do.” He put an awkward arm 
round her; he pressed her head to his shoulder, so 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


98 

that she could not see his face. “Of course I do,” 
he said again. “Don’t you worry — we’re going to 
be awfully happy.” He kissed her cheek. , 

Christine turned and put her arms round his neck; 
she was only a child still — she saw no reason at all 
why she should not let Jimmy know how very much 
she loved him. 

“Oh, I do love you — I do,” she said softly. 

Jimmy coloured hotly; he felt an uncontrollable 
longing to kick himself; he kissed her again with 
furtive haste. 

“That’s all right, dear,” he said. 

They had arranged to stay a week in London. 
Christine liked London. “And we couldn’t very well 
do anything very much, could we?” So she had 

appealed to him wistfully. “When mother ” 

She had not been able to go on. 

Jimmy had agreed hastily to anything; he had 
chosen a very quiet and select hotel, and taken a 
suite of rooms. He did not know how on earth they 
were going to be paid for; he was counting on an 
extra cheque from the Great Horatio as a wedding 
present. He was relieved when the taxi stopped at 
the hotel; he got out with a sigh; he turned to give 
his hand to Christine; his heart smote him as he 
looked at her. 

Sangster was right when he had called her “such 
a child.” She looked very young as she stood there 
in the afternoon sunshine, in her black frock, and 
with her white flowers clasped nervously in both 
hands. Jimmy felt conscious of a lump in his throat. 

“Come along, dear,” he said very gently; he put 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 99 

his hand through her arm. They went into the hotel 
together. 

Christine went upstairs with one of the maids. 
Jimmy said he would come up presently for tea; he 
went into the smoking-room and rang for a brandy 
and soda. For the first time in his life he was 
genuinely afraid of what he had done; he knew now 
that he cared nothing for Christine. It was a ter- 
rifying thought. 

And she had nobody but him — the responsibility 
of her whole life lay on his shoulders; it made him 
hot to think of it. 

He tossed the brandy and soda off at a gulp. He 
looked at his watch; half-past four. They had been 
married only two hours; and he had got to spend all 
the rest of his life with her. 

Poor little Christine — it was not her fault. He 
had asked her to marry him; he meant to be good 
to her. A servant came to the door. 

“Mrs. Challoner said would I tell you that tea is 
served upstairs in the sitting-room, sir.” 

Jimmy squared his shoulders; he tried to look as 
if there had been a Mrs. Challoner for fifty years; 
but the sound of Christine’s new name made his 
heart sink. 

“Oh — er — thanks,” he said as carelessly as he 
could. “I’ll go up.” He waited a few moments, 
then he went slowly up the stairs, feeling very much 
as if he were going to be executed. 

He stood for a moment on the landing outside the 
door of the private sitting-room, with an absurdly 
schoolboyish air of bashfulness. 


IOO 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


He passed a hand nervously over the back of his 
head; he wriggled his collar; twice he took a step 
forward and stopped again; finally the appearance 
of a servant along the corridor drove him to make 
up his mind. He opened the door with a rush. 

Christine was standing over by the window; the 
afternoon sunshine fell on her slim, black-robed 
figure and brown hair. She turned quickly as Jimmy 
Challoner entered. 

“Tea has been up some minutes; I hope it’s not 
cold.” 

“I like it cold,” said Jimmy. 

As a matter of fact, he hated tea at any time, and 
never drank it if it could be avoided; but he sat down 
with as good a grace as he could muster, and took 
a cup from her hand with its new ring — his ring. 
Jimmy Challoner glanced at it and away again. 

“Nice room this — eh?” he asked. 

“Yes.” Christine had sugared her own cup three 
times without knowing it; she took a cake from the 
stand, and dropped it nervously. Jimmy laughed; 
a boyish laugh of amusement that seemed to break 
the ice. 

“Anyone would think you had never seen me 
before,” he said, with an attempt to put her at her 
ease. “And I’ve known you all your life!” 

“I know; but ” She looked at him with very 

flushed cheeks. “I’m afraid, Jimmy — afraid that 
you’ll find you’ve made a mistake; afraid that you’ll 
find I’m too young and — silly.” 

“You’re not to call the lady I have married rude 
names.” 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


IOI 


“But it’s true,” she faltered. She put down the 
cup and went over to where he sat. She stood with 
her hands clasped behind her, looking down at him 
with a sort of fond humility. 

“I do love you, Jimmy,” she said softly. “And I 
will — I will try to be the sort of wife you want.” 

Jimmy tried to answer her, but somehow the 
words stuck in his throat. She was not the sort of 
wife he wanted, and never would be. That thought 
filled his mind. All the willingness in the world 
could not endow her with Cynthia’s eyes, Cynthia’s 
voice, Cynthia’s caressing way of saying, “Dear old 
boy.” 

He choked back a big sigh; he found Christine’s 
hand and raised it to his lips. 

“We shall get along swimmingly,” he said with an 
effort. “Don’t you worry your little head.” 

But she was not satisfied. 

“I must be so different from all the other women 
you are used to,” she told him wistfully. “I’m not 
smart or amusing — and I don’t dress as well as they 
do.” 

Jimmy smiled. 

“Well, one can always buy clothes,” he said. A 
sudden wave of tenderness swept through his heart 
as he looked at her. “Anyway, you’ve got one pull 
over all of them,” he said with momentary senti- 
ment. 

“Have I — Jimmy! What do you mean?” 

He kissed her trembling little fingers again. 

“You were my first love,” he said with a touch of 


102 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


embarrassment. “And it’s not many men who can 
claim to have married their first love.” 

Christine was quite happy now; she bent and 
kissed him before she went back to her seat. Jimmy 
felt considerably cheered. If she were as easily 
pleased as this, life would not be the difficult thing 
that he had imagined, he told himself. He selected 
a chocolate cake — suitably heart-shaped — and began 
to munch it with a sort of relish. 

“How would you like to run over to Paris for a 
few days — later on, of course, I mean?” he added 
hastily, meeting her eyes. It would be rather fun 
showing Christine round Paris, he thought. He 
looked at her with a twinkle. 

She was very pretty, anyway; he was proud of 
her, too, deep down in his heart. No doubt after a 
bit they would be quite happy together. 

He finished the chocolate cake, and asked if he 
might smoke; he was longing for a cigarette. He 
was not quite sure if it would be correct to 
smoke in a room which would be chiefly used by 
Christine. With Cynthia things had been so dif- 
ferent — she smoked endless cigarettes herself; there 
was never any need to ask permission of her. 

He could not imagine Christine with a cigarette 
between her pretty lips. And yet — yet he had liked 
it with Cynthia. Odd how different women were. 

“Please do smoke,” said Christine. She was glad 
he had asked her; glad that for the rest of his life 
whenever he smoked a cigarette, it would not merely 
be Jimmy Challoner blowing puffs of smoke into the 
air, but her husband. She glowed at the thought. 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


103 


Jimmy was much more happy now; to his own 
way of thinking he was getting on by leaps and 
bounds. He went over and sat on the arm of Chris- 
tine’s chair; another moment and he would have put 
an arm round her, but a soft, apologetic tapping at 
the door sent him flying away from her to the other 
side of the room. 

He was carefully turning the pages of a book 
when he answered, “Come in,” with elaborate care- 
lessness. One of the hotel servants entered; he 
carried a letter on a tray; he handed it to Christine. 

“A messenger from the Sunderland Hotel has just 
brought this, madam. He told me to say that it has 
been there two days, but they did not know till this 
morning where to send it on to you.” 

Christine’s face quivered. She did not want to 
think of the Sunderland; her mother had died there; 
it would always be associated in her mind with the 
great tragedy of her life. She took the letter 
hesitatingly; she did not know the writing. She 
waited till the servant had gone before she opened 
it. 

Jimmy was still turning the leaves of the railway 
guide feverishly. At the shutting of the door he 
turned with a sigh of relief. 

“A letter?” Christine was drawing the paper from 
its envelope; pink paper, smelling faintly of lilies. 

Jimmy lit a fresh cigarette. He walked over to 
the window and stood looking into the street; a 
horribly respectable street it was, he thought im- 
patiently, of good-class houses, with windows neatly 
curtained and knockers carefully polished. 


104 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


He was really quite anxious to kiss Christine; he 
was wondering whether she, too, was anxious for 
him to kiss her. After a moment he turned a little, 
and looked at her tentatively. 

But Christine was not looking at him; she was 
sitting with her eyes fixed straight in front of her, a 
frozen look of horror on her little face. The letter 
had tumbled from her lap to the floor. 

“Christine 1” said Jimmy sharply. He was really 
alarmed; he took a big stride over to where she sat; 
he shook her. “Christine — what has happened? 
What is the matter?” 

She looked at him then; she turned her beautiful 
eyes to his face, and at sight of them Jimmy caught 
his breath hard. 

“Oh, Christine!” he said almost in a whisper. 

His thoughts sped back incongruously to a day in 
the years that had gone; when he and she had been 
children together down in the country at Upton 
House. 

He had stolen a gun belonging to the Great 
Horatio, and they had crept out into the woods 
together — he and she — to shoot rabbits, as he had 
confidently told her; and instead — oh, instead they 
had shot Christine’s favourite dog Ruler. 

All his life Jimmy remembered the broken-hearted 
look in Christine’s eyes when she flung herself down 
by the fast-stiffening body of her favourite. And 
now she was looking like that again; looking at him 

as if he had broken her heart — as if Jimmy 

Challoner backed a step; his face had paled. 

“In God’s name, what is it — what is it?” 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


105 

And then he saw the letter lying there on the floor 
between them in all its brazen pinkness. The faint 
scent of lilies was wafted to his brain before he 
stooped and grabbed it up. He held it at arm’s 
length while he read it, as if already its writer had 
become repellent to him. There was a long, long 
silence. 

The letter had been written two days ago. Jimmy 
realised dully that Cynthia must have gone straight 
from his rooms that evening and sent it; realised 
that it had been lying at the hotel where Mrs. Wyatt 
died until now. 

Perhaps Cynthia Farrow had not realised what 
she was doing — perhaps she judged all women by her 
own standard; but surely even she would have been 
more than satisfied with the results could she have 
seen Christine’s face as she sat there in the big, 
silent room, with the afternoon sunshine streaming 
around her. 

Twice Jimmy tried to speak, but no words would 
come; he felt as if rough hands were at his throat, 
choking him, squeezing the life out of his body. 
Then suddenly he fell on his knees beside his wife. 

“Christine — for God’s sake ” He tried to take 

her in his arms, but she moved away; shrank back 
from him as if in terror, hiding her face and moaning 
— moaning. 

“Christine ...” There was a sob in Jimmy 
Challoner’s voice now; he broke out stammeringly. 
“Don’t believe it — it’s all lies. I’d give my soul to 
undo it — if only you’d never seen it. I swear to you 
on my word of honour that I’ll never see her again. 


io6 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


I’ll do any mortal thing, anything in the wide world, 

if only you’ll look at me — if you’ll forgive me 

Oh, for God’s sake, say you forgive me ” 

Her hands fell from her face; for a moment her 
eyes sought his. 

“Then — then it is true!” she said faintly. 

“Yes. I can’t tell you a lie about it — it is true. I 
did — did love her. I was — engaged to her; but 
it’s all over. I swear to you that it’s all over and 
done with. I’ll never see her again — I’ll be so good 
to you.” She hardly seemed to hear. 

“Then you never really loved me?” she asked 
after a moment. “It wasn’t because — because you 
loved me?” 

“N-no.” He got to his feet again; he strode up 
and down the room agitatedly. He had spoken truly 
enough when he said that he would have given his 
soul to undo these last few moments. 

Presently he came back to where she sat — this 
poor little wife of his. 

“Forgive me, dear,” he said, very humbly. “I — 
I ask your pardon on my knees — and — it isn’t too 
late; we’ve got all our lives before us. We’ll go 
right away somewhere — you and I — out of London. 
We’ll never come back.” 

She echoed his words painfully. 

“You and I! I — I can’t go anywhere — ever — 
with you — now!” 

He broke into anger. 

“You’re talking utter nonsense; you must be mad. 
You’ve married me — you’re my wife. You’ll have to 
come with me — to do as I tell you. I — oh, confound 


HUSBAND AND WIFE 


107 


it 1” He broke off, realising how dictatorial his 

voice had grown. He paced away from her again, 
and again came back. 

“Look at me, Christine.” She raised her eyes 
obediently. The hot blood rushed to Jimmy’s face. 
He wondered if it were only his fancy, or if there 
were really scorn in their soft brownness. He tried 
to speak, but broke off. Christine rose to her feet; 
she passed the pink letter as if she had not seen it; 
she walked to the door. 

“Where are you going?” asked Jimmy sharply. 

She looked back at him. “I don’t know. I — oh, 
please leave me alone,” she added piteously as he 
would have followed her. 

He let her go then; he waited till the door had 
shut, then he snatched up Cynthia’s letter once again, 
and read it through. 

It was an abominable thing to have done, he told 
himself — abominable; and yet, as he read the skil- 
fully penned words, his vain man’s heart beat a little 
faster at the knowledge that she still loved him, this 
woman who had thrown him over so heartlessly; she 
still loved him, though it was too late. The faint 
scent of the lilies which her note-paper always carried 
brought back the memory of her with painful vivid- 
ness. Before he was conscious of it, Jimmy had 
lifted the letter to his lips. 

He flung it from him immediately in honest dis- 
gust; he despised himself because he could not forget 
her; he tried to imagine what Christine must be 
thinking — be suffering. With sudden impulse he 
tore open the door; he went across to her room — 


108 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

their room ; he tried the handle softly. It was locked. 

“Christine!” But there was no answer. He 
called again: “Christine!” And now he heard her 
voice. 

“Go away; please go away.” An angry flush 
dyed his face. After all, she was his wife; it was 
absurd to make this fuss. After all, everything had 
happened before he proposed to her; it was all over 
and done with. It was her duty to overlook the past. 

He listened a moment; he wondered if anyone 
would hear if he ordered her to let him in — if he 
threatened to break the door down. 

He could hear her crying now; hear the deep, piti- 
ful sobs that must be shaking her whole slender 
body. 

“Christine!” But there was nothing very master- 
ful in the way he spoke her name; his voice only 
sounded very shamed and humiliated as, after wait- 
ing a vain moment for her reply, he turned and went 
slowly away. 


CHAPTER XII 


SANGSTER IS CONSULTED 

J IMMY had been married two days when one 
morning he burst into Sangster’s room in the 
unfashionable part of Bloomsbury. 

It had been raining heavily. London looked grey 
and dismal; even the little fat sparrows who twit- 
tered all day long in the boughs of a stunted tree 
outside the window of Sangster’s modest sitting-room 
had given up trying to be cheerful, and were huddled 
together under the leaves. 

Sangster was in his shirt-sleeves and old carpet 
slippers, writing, when Jimmy entered. He looked 
up disinterestedly, then rose to his feet. 

“You! good heavens!” 

“Yes — me,” said Jimmy ungrammatically. He 
threw his hat on to the horsehair sofa, which seemed 
to be the most important piece of furniture in the 
room, and dropped into a chair. “Got a cigarette? 
My case is empty.” 

Sangster produced his own; it was brown leather, 
and shabby; very different from the silver and 
enamel absurdity which Jimmy Challoner invariably 
carried. 

After a moment: 

“Well?” said Sangster. There was a touch of 


109 


no 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


anxiety in his kindly eyes, though he tried to speak 
cheerfully. “Well, how goes it — and the little 
wife?” 

Jimmy growled something unintelligible. He 
threw the freshly lit cigarette absently into the fire- 
place instead of the spent match, swore under his 
breath, and grabbed it back again. 

Suddenly he sprang to his feet. 

“I’ve made the devil’s own mess of it all,” he said 
violently. 

Sangster made no comment; he put down his pen, 
pushed his chair back a little and waited. 

Jimmy blew an agitated puff of smoke into the air 
and blurted out again : “She says she won’t stay with 

me; she says ” He threw out his hands 

agitatedly. “It wasn’t my fault; I swear to you that 
it wasn’t my fault, Sangster. Things were going 
swimmingly, and then the letter came — and that 
finished it.” He was incoherent — stammering; but 
Sangster seemed to understand. 

“Cynthia Farrow?” he asked briefly. 

“Yes. The letter was sent on from the hotel 
where Christine had been staying with her mother. 
It had been delayed two days, as the people didn’t 
know where she was.” He swallowed hard, as if 
choking back a bitter memory. “It came about an 
hour after we left you.” 

“On your wedding day?” Sangster was flushed 
now; his eyes looked very distressed. 

Jimmy turned away. 

“Yes,” he said in a stifled voice. “If I’d only seen 
the accursed thing — but I didn’t; she opened it, and 


SANGSTER IS CONSULTED 


hi 


then ” There was a long pause before he went 

on again jerkily. “I did my best — even then — but 
she wouldn’t believe me; she doesn’t believe me now. 
I swore that I’d never see Cynthia again; I swore 
that I’d do anything in the whole world she 
wanted ” 

“Except the one thing which you cannot do, I 
suppose,” Sangster interposed quietly. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Love her,” said Sangster. “That’s what I 
mean.” 

Jimmy tried to laugh; it was a miserable failure. 
“She’s hardly spoken to me since,” he went on, after 
a moment, wretchedly. “I’ve — oh, I’ve had a devil 
of a time these last two days, I can tell you. I can’t 
get her to come out with me — she hardly leaves her 
room; she just cries and cries,” he added with a sort 
of weariness. “Just keeps on saying she wants her 
mother — she wants her mother.” 

“Poor little girl.” 

“Yes — that’s how I feel,” said Jimmy. “It’s — it’s 
perfectly rotten, isn’t it? And she looks so ill, too. 
. . . What did you say?” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Well, then, I wish to God you would,” said 
Jimmy with sudden rage. “I’m about fed-up with 

life, I can tell you ” He broke off. “Oh, I don’t 

mean that; but I’m worried to death. I — what the 
devil can I do?” he asked helplessly. 

Sangster did not know how to answer; he sat 
staring down at the worn toes of his carpet slippers 
and thinking of Christine. 


1 12 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


She was such a child, and she loved Jimmy so 
much. It made his heart ache to think of the shy 
happiness he had always read in her eyes whenever 
she looked at Jimmy. 

“Of course, I shouldn’t have told you, only I know 
you won’t say a word,” said Jimmy presently. “I — 
I stood it as long as I could; I stood it till I felt as 
if I should go mad, and then I bolted off here to you. 

. . . She’s got nobody but me, you see.” He drew 
a long breath. “I only wish to God Mrs. Wyatt 
were alive,” he added earnestly. 

Sangster said nothing. “I wondered if, perhaps, 
you’d go round and see her, old chap,” Jimmy jerked 
out then. “She likes you. Of course, you needn’t 
say you’d seen me. Couldn’t you ’phone up or some- 
thing? Get her to go out. . . . She’ll die if some- 
one can’t rouse her.” 

Sangster coloured. 

“I — I’m not good at that sort of thing, Jimmy. 
It’s not that I’m unwilling to help you; I’d do any- 
thing •” 

“Well, then, try it; there’s a good chap. You — 
you were so decent to her that day Mrs. Wyatt died; 
you’ve got a sort of way that I haven’t. I — I should 
be no end obliged. I’ll — I’ll keep out of the way 

myself for a bit, and then ” He looked anxiously 

at his friend. “Will you go?” 

“She probably won’t see me if I do.” 

“She will. She’s sick of the sight of me.” 

Sangster smiled in spite of himself. He got up, 
stretching his arms; he shook his head at Jimmy. 

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” said Jimmy 


SANGSTER IS CONSULTED 


113 

savagely. “But I swear to you that it’s not my fault 
this time, anyway. I swear to you that I’ve done my 
best. I ” 

“I’m not doubting it,” said Sangster dryly. He 
fetched his hat and coat from a room adjoining, and 
they went out into the street together. 

“Take her out to lunch,” said Jimmy nervously. 
“Take her for a walk in the park — try to rouse her 
a bit; but for heaven’s sake don’t talk about me.” 

He looked anxious and worried; he really was 
very upset; but he was conscious of an enormous 
sense of relief as he and Sangster parted at the street 
corner. As soon as Sangster was out of sight he 
hailed a taxi, and told the man to drive him to his 
club. He ordered a stiff brandy and soda, and 
dropped into one of the deep leathern arm-chairs 
with a sigh. He had been married only three days, 
and already it seemed like three years. Of course, 
he was not blaming Christine, poor little girl; but — 
oh, if only she hadn’t been quite such a child! 

He lifted the glass, and looked at its contents with 
lugubrious eyes. 

“Well, here’s to a brighter future,” said Jimmy 
Challoner drearily; but he sighed heavily as he tossed 

off the brandy and soda. 

* * * * * * 

Sangster felt decidedly nervous when he reached 
the hotel where Jimmy and his w r ife were staying. 
He had no faith in his own powers, though appar- 
ently Jimmy had plenty for him; he was no ladies’ 
man; he had* never troubled about a woman in his 
life, probably because none had ever troubled about 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


114 

him. He asked punctiliously for Jimmy; it was only 
when told that Mr. Challoner was out that he asked 
for Christine. 

A little gleam of something like sympathy shot into 
the man’s eyes. The chambermaid who waited on 
Christine was voluble, and a friend of his, and he 
had heard a great deal from her that was untrue, 
mixed up with a smattering of truth. 

He said that he was sure Mrs. Challoner was in; 
he sent a page-boy up with Sangster’s card. 

It seemed a long time before the reply came. Mrs. 
Challoner would be pleased to see Mr. Sangster; 
would he go up to her sitting-room. 

Sangster obeyed reluctantly; he dreaded tears; 
he dreaded to see grief and disillusionment in the 
beautiful eyes which he could only remember as 
happy and trusting. He waited nervously till she 
came to him. He looked round the room appre- 
hensively; it had an empty, unlived-in look about it, 
though there were various possessions of Jimmy’s 
scattered about it — a pipe, newspapers, and a large 
box of cigarettes. There was a small pair of Chris- 
tine’s slippers, too, with high heels. Sangster looked 
at them with eyes which he did not know were ten- 
der. They seemed to appeal to him somehow; there 
was such a solitary look about them, standing there 
in a corner by themselves. 

Then the door opened and she came in; a little 
pale ghost of the girl whom he had last seen, with 
quivering lips that tried to smile, and shadows be- 
neath her eyes. 

It was an effort to Sangster to greet her as if he 


SANGSTER IS CONSULTED 


ii5 

were unconscious of the tragedy in her face ; he took 
her hand in a close grip. 

“I am so glad you allowed me to come up; I didn’t 
want to intrude ; I asked for Jimmy, but they told me 
he was out, and so I wondered if you would see me 
— just for a moment.” 

“I am very glad you came; I” — she bit her lip — 
“I don’t think Jimmy will be back to lunch,” she 
said. 

“Capital!” Sangster tried to speak naturally; he 
laughed. “Then will you come out to lunch with 
me? Jimmy won’t mind, and ” 

“Oh, no, Jimmy won’t mind.” There was such 
bitterness in her voice that for a moment it shocked 
him into silence; she looked at him with burning 
eyes. “Jimmy wouldn’t mind no matter what I did,” 
she said, almost as if the words were forced from 
her against her will. “Oh, Mr. Sangster, why did 
you let him marry me? — you must have known. 
Jimmy doesn’t care any more for me than — than you 
do.” 

There was a tragic pause. She did not cry; she 
just looked at him with broken-hearted eyes. 

“Oh, my dear; don’t — don’t say that,” said Sangs- 
ter in distress. 

He took her hand and held it clumsily between his 
own. Her words had been like a reproach. Was he 
to blame? he asked himself remorsefully; and yet — 
what could he have done? Christine would not have 
believed him had he tried to tell her. 

“It’s true,” she said dully. “It’s true . . . and 
now I haven’t got anybody in all the world.” 


n6 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Sangster did not know what to answer. He broke 
out awkwardly that things were always difficult at 
first; that Jimmy was really one of the best; that if 
only she would have a little patience, everything 
would come right; he was sure of it. 

But she only shook her head. 

“I ought to have known; I can’t think now why 
it is that I never guessed,” she said hopelessly. “All 
the other women he has known are so much better 
than I am.” 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t say that,” he broke 
out; there was a sort of horror in his face as he 
contrasted Cynthia and her friends to this girl. 
“You’re ill and run down,” he went on urgently. 
“Everything seems wrong when you’re not well. 
Will you come out with me? It’s not raining now, 
and the air’s beautifully fresh. I’m longing for a 
walk myself; I’ve been writing all the morning. 
We’ll have some lunch together, and walk in the 
park afterwards, shall we?” 

He thought she was going to refuse; she shook her 
head. 

“Please do,” he urged. “I want to talk to you; 
there are so many things I want to say to you.” He 
waited a moment. “You told me once that you liked 
me,” he submitted whimsically. “You’ve not gone 
back on that, have you?” 

The ghost of a smile lit her eyes. 

“No, but ” 

“Then please come.” 

There was a moment’s silence. 

“Very well,” said Christine. Her voice was quite 


SANGSTER IS CONSULTED 117 

apathetic. He knew that she was absolutely indif- 
ferent as to where she went or what she did. She 
looked so broken — just as if someone had wiped the 
sunshine out of her life with a ruthless hand. 

She went away to dress, and Sangster stood at the 
window, frowning into the street. 

‘‘Infernal young fool!” he said savagely after a 
moment ; but whether he referred to a youth who was 
just at that moment passing, or to Jimmy Challoner, 
seemed uncertain. 


CHAPTER XIII 


CHRISTINE HEARS THE TRUTH 

S ANGSTER took Christine to a little out-of-the- 
way restaurant, where he knew there would not 
be many people. 

He carefully avoided referring again to Jimmy; he 
talked of anything and everything under the sun to 
try and distract her attention. She had declared that 
she was not hungry; but, to his delight, she ate quite 
a good lunch. She liked the restaurant; she had 
never been in Bohemia before. She was very inter- 
ested in an old table Sangster showed her, which 
was carved all over with the signatures of well-known 
patrons of the house. A little flush crept into her 
pale cheeks; presently she was smiling. 

Sangster was cheered; he told himself that she only 
needed understanding. He believed that if Jimmy 
chose, he could convince her that everything was 
going to be all right in the future; he believed that 
with a little tact and patience Jimmy could entirely 
regain her lost confidence. But patience and Jimmy 
seemed somehow irreconcilable; Jimmy was too 
young — too selfish. He sighed involuntarily as he 
looked at Christine. 

When they had left the restaurant again, and were 
118 


CHRISTINE HEARS THE TRUTH 119 

walking towards the park, he deliberately began to 
talk about Jimmy. 

“I suppose Jimmy never told you how he and I 
first met, did he?” he asked. 

“No.” Her sensitive little face flushed; she 
looked up at him eagerly. 

“It isn’t a bit romantic really,” he said. “At least, 
not from my point of view; but I dare say you would 
be interested, because it shows what a fine chap 
Jimmy really is.” He took it for granted that she 
was listening. He went on: “It was some years ago 
now, of course — five years, I think; and I was broke 
— broke to the T^ide, if you know what that means!” 
He glanced down at her smilingly. “I’m by way of 
being a struggling journalist, you know,” he ex- 
plained. “More of the struggling than the jour- 
nrdist. I’m not a bit of good at the job, to be quite 
candid; but it’s a life I like — and lately I’ve managed 
to scrape along quite decently. Anyhow, at the time 
I met Jimmy I was down and out . . . Fleet Street 
would have none of me, and I even had to pawn my 
watch.” 

“Oh!” said Christine with soft sympathy. 

Sangster laughed. 

“That’s nothing; it’s been pawned fifty times since 
it first came into my possession, I should think. 
Don’t think I’m asking for sympathy — I’m not. It’s 
the sort of life that suits me, and I wouldn’t change 
it for another — even if I had the chance. But the 
night I ran across Jimmy I was fairly up against it. 
I hadn’t had a square meal for a week, and I was 
ill to add to the trouble. Jimmy was coming along 


120 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Pall Mall in evening-dress. He was smoking a cigar 
that smelt good, and I wondered as he passed me if 
I dared go up and ask him for a shilling.” 

“Oh, Mr. Sangster!” He looked down hearing 
the distress in her voice. 

“Don’t look so sorry!” he said very gently. “It’s 
all in a day’s march for me. I’ve had my good times, 
and I’ve had my bad; and when I come to write the 
story of my life — when I’m a bloated millionaire, 
that is!” he added in laughing parenthesis — “it will 
make fine reading to know that I was once so hard 
up that I cadged a shilling off a swell in evening- 
dress!” 

But Christine did not laugh; her eyes were almost 
targic as she looked up wonderingly at Sangster’s 
honest face. 

“And — and did you ask him?” she questioned. 

“Did I not!” said Sangster heartily. “I went up 
to him — Jimmy stopped dead, I believe he thought 
I was going to pinch his watch — and I said, ‘Will 
you be a sport and lend me a bob?’ Not a bit ro- 
mantic, you see!” 

Christine caught her breath. 

“And did he — did he?” she asked eagerly. 

Sangster laughed reminiscently. 

“You’ll never guess what he said. He asked no 
questions, he took the cigar from his lips and looked 
at me, and he said, ‘I haven’t got a bob in the world 
till my brother, the Great Horatio, sends my monthly 
allowance along; but if you’ll come as far as the next 
street, I know a chap I can borrow a sovereign from.’ 
Wasn’t that just Jimmy all over?” 


CHRISTINE HEARS THE TRUTH 121 


Christine was laughing, too, now. 

“Oh, I can just hear him saying it! I can just see 
him!” she cried. “And then what did you do?” 

“Well, we went along — to this pal of Jimmy’s, and 
Jimmy borrowed a fiver. He gave me three pounds, 
and took me along to have a dinner. And — well, 
we’ve been pals ever since. A bit of luck for me, 
wasn’t it?” 

“I was thinking,” said little Christine very ear- 
nestly, “that it was a bit of luck for Jimmy.” 

Sangster grew furiously red. For a moment he 
could think of nothing to say; he had only told the 
story in order to soften her towards Jimmy, and in 
a measure he had succeeded. 

Christine walked beside him without speaking for 
some time; her brown eyes were very thoughtful. 

Sangster talked no more of Jimmy; he was too 
tactful to overdo things. Jimmy was not mentioned 
between them again till he took her back to the hotel. 
Then : 

“I don’t know how to thank you for being so kind 
to me,” she said earnestly. Her brown eyes were 
lifted confidingly to his face. “But I’ve been happier 
this afternoon than — than I’ve ever been since my 
mother died.” 

Sangster gripped her hand hard for a moment. 

“And you will be happy — always — if you’re just a 
little patient,” he said, rather huskily. “Jimmy’s a 
spoilt boy, and — and — it’s the women who have to 
show all of us — eh? It’s the women who are our 
guardian angels; remember that!” 

He hated himself for having had to blame her, 


122 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


even mildly, when the fault was so utterly and en- 
tirely Jimmy’s. It seemed a monstrous thing that 
Christine should have to teach Jimmy unselfishness; 
he hoped he had not said too much. 

But Christine was really much happier, had he 
known it. She went up to her room, and changed 
her frock for one of the few simple ones she had had 
new when she was married. She did her hair in a 
way she thought Jimmy would like; she sent one of 
the servants out for flowers to brighten the little 
sitting-room; she timidly ordered what she thought 
would be an extra nice dinner to please him. The 
waiter looked at her questioningly. 

“For — for two, madam?” he asked hesitatingly. 

“Yes, please. Mr. Challoner and I will dine up 
here this evening.” 

As a rule, Jimmy dined downstairs alone, and 
Christine had something sent up to her. She was 
vaguely beginning to realise now how foolish she 
had been. The little time she had spent with Sangs- 
ter had been like the opening of a door in her poor 
little heart, letting in fresh air and common sense. 
After all, how could she hope to win Jimmy by tears 
and recriminations? She had heard the doctrine of 
“forgive and forget” preached so frequently; surely 
this was the moment in which to apply it to herself 
and him. 

Her heart beat a little fast at the thought. She 
spoke again to the waiter as he turned to leave the 
room. 

“And — and will you find out what wine Mr. Chal- 


CHRISTINE HEARS THE TRUTH 123 

loner has with his dinner, as a rule ; and — and serve 
the same this evening.’ * 

The man hesitated, then : 

“Mr. Challoner told me he should not be dining in 
this evening, madam,” he said reluctantly. “He 
came in about three o’clock, and went out again; I 
think there was a message for him. He told me to 
tell you if you came in.” He averted his eyes from 
Christine’s blanching face as he spoke. “I am sure 
that is what Mr. Challoner said, madam,” he re- 
peated awkwardly. 

“Oh, very well.” Christine stood quite still in the 
empty room when he had gone; it seemed all the 
more lonely and empty, now that once again she had 
been robbed of her eager hopes. 

Jimmy was not coming home. Jimmy found her 
so dull and uninteresting that he was only too glad 
of an excuse to stay out. 

She wondered where he had gone; whom the mes- 
sage had been from. 

A sudden crimson stain dyed her cheek. . . . 
Cynthia Farrow! 

She tried hard to stamp the thought out of exist- 
ence — tried hard to push it from her but it was use- 
less. It grew and grew in her agonised mind till she 
could think of nothing else. She walked about the 
room, wringing her hands. 

If Jimmy had gone to Cynthia, that was the end 
of everything. She could never forgive this. If 
Jimmy had gone to Cynthia, she hoped that she 
would die before she ever saw him again. 

She could not believe that she had ever talked to 


124 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


him of Cynthia — that she had ever admired her, or 
thought her beautiful. She hated her now — hated 
her for the very charms that had so hopelessly capti- 
vated the man she loved. If Jimmy had gone to 
Cynthia . . . she stood still, fighting hard for self- 
control. 

She tried to remember what Sangster had said: 

“Jimmy is such a boy; give him a chance.” And 
here she was already condemning him without a 
hearing. 

She bit her lips till they bled. She would wait till 
she knew; she would wait till she was sure — quite 
sure. 

She did her best to eat some of the dinner she had 
ordered, but it was uphill work. Jimmy’s empty 
chair opposite was a continual reminder of his ab- 
sence. Where was he? she asked herself in an agony 
of doubt. With whom was he dining whilst she was 
here alone? 

After dinner she tried to read. She sat down by 
the fire, and turned the pages of a magazine without 
really seeing a line or picture. When someone 
knocked at the door she started up eagerly, with 
flushing cheeks ; but it was only the waiter with coffee 
and an evening paper. 

She asked him an anxious question: 

“Mr. Challoner has not come in yet?” She trie ' 1 
hard to speak as if it were nothing out of the ordi- 
nary for Jimmy to be out. 

“Not yet, madam.” He set down the coffee and 
the evening paper and went quietly away. Outside 


CHRISTINE HEARS THE TRUTH 125 

on the landing he encountered the maid who waited 
on Christine. 

“It’s a shame — that’s what it is!” the girl said 
warmly when he told her in whispered tones that 
Mrs. Challoner was alone again. “A shame! and 
her only just married, the pretty dear!” 

She wondered what Christine was doing; she 
hovered round the door, sympathetic and longing to 
be able to help, and not knowing how. 

Christine had taken up the paper. She did not 
know how to pass the evening; the minutes seemed 
to be dragging past with deliberate slowness. 

She looked at the clock — only eight! She waited 
some time, then looked again. Five past. Why, 
surely the clock must have stopped; surely it must 
be half an hour since she had last glanced at its 
expressionless face. 

She sighed wearily. 

She had never felt so acutely alone and deserted 
in all her life; she had hardly been separated for a 
single day from her mother till death stepped in 
between them. Mrs. Wyatt’s constant presence had 
kept Christine young; had made her more of a child 
than she would have been had she had to look after 
herself. She felt her position now the more acutely 
in consequence. 

“Serious accident to Miss Cynthia Farrow.” Her 
eyes caught the headline of the paragraph as she idly 
turned the page ; she gave a little start. Her hands 
clutched the paper convulsively. 

She read the few lines eagerly: 


126 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“Miss Cynthia Farrow, the well-known actress, 
was the victim of a serious motor-car accident this 
afternoon. Returning from the theatre, the car in 
which Miss Farrow was riding came into collision 
with a car owned by Mr. C. E. Hoskins, the well- 
known airman. Miss Farrow was unfortunately 
thrown out, and is suffering from concussion and 
severe bruises. Miss Farrow has been appearing 
at the Theatre as . . . 

Christine read no more. She did not care for the 
details of Cynthia Farrow’s life; all she cared was 
that this paragraph settled for once and all her doubt 
about Jimmy. Of course, Jimmy could not be with 
her if she were ill and unconscious. She felt bitterly 
ashamed of her suspicion; her spirits went up like 
rockets; she threw the paper aside. The terrible 
load of care seemed lifted for a moment from her 
shoulders; she was asking Jimmy’s pardon on her 
heart’s knees for having ever dreamed that he would 
do such a thing after all his promises to her. 

She opened the door and looked into the corridor. 
Downstairs she could hear a band playing in the 
lounge; it sounded inviting and cheery. She went 
down the stairs and found a seat in a palm-screened 
corner. 

Jimmy had begged her to mix more with other 
people, and not stay in her room so much. If he 
came in now he would be pleased to see that she had 
done as he asked her, she thought with a little thrill. 

She could look ahead now, and make plans for 
their future. She would consent to leaving London 


CHRISTINE HEARS THE TRUTH 127 

at once, and going somewhere where Cynthia Far- 
row’s influence had never made itself felt. She would 
start all over again; she would be so tactful, so pa- 
tient. She would win him over to her ; make him love 
her more than he had ever loved Cynthia. 

Her face glowed at the thought; her eyes shone 
like stars. She lost herself in happy introspection. 

u Yes — rotten hard luck, isn’t it?” said a voice 
somewhere behind her. “Just when she’s on the 
crest of the wave, as you might say. Doubtful if she 
gets over it, so I hear.” 

Christine listened apathetically. She wondered 
who the voice was talking about; she half turned; 
trying to see the speaker, but the palms effectually 
screened him. 

A second, less distinct voice made some remark, 
and the first speaker answered with a little laugh : 

“Yes — dead keen, wasn’t he, poor beggar; but he 
wasn’t rich enough for her. A woman like that 
makes diamonds trumps every time, and not hearts, 
you know — eh ? Poor old Jimmy — he always hated 
Mortlake like the devil. . . . She was in Mortlake’s 
car when the smash occurred, you know . . . No, 
I don’t much think she’ll marry him. If she goes 
on at the rate she’s going now, she’ll be flying for 
higher game in a month or two. I know women of 
that stamp — had some myself, as you might say. 
. . . What — really! poor old chap! Thought he 
only got married the other day.” 

The second voice was more audible now: 

“So he did; some little girl from the country, I 
hear. God alone knows why he did it Any- 


128 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


way, there can’t be any affection in it, because I 
happen to know that Jimmy was sent for to-night. 
They said she asked for him as soon as she could 
speak. . . . Jimmy, mark you! not a bob in the 
world. . . .” The voice broke in a cynical laugh. 

Jimmy! They were talking of Jimmy — and 

All the blood in her body seemed to concentrate 
suddenly in her heart, and then rush away from it, 
turning her faint and sick. The many lights in the 
big lounge seemed to twinkle and go out. 

She pressed her feet hard to the floor; she shut 
her eyes. 

After a moment she felt better; her brain began 
to work again stiffly. 

So Jimmy was with Cynthia, after all. Jimmy 
had been sent for, and Jimmy had gone. 

This was the end of everything; this was the end 
of all her dreams of happiness of the future. 

She sat there for a long, long time, unconscious 
of her surroundings ; it was only when the band had 
stopped playing, and a sort of silence fell every- 
where, that she moved stiffly and went back up the 
stairs to her own room. 

She stood there by the bed for a moment, looking 
round her with dull eyes; the clock on the mantel- 
shelf pointed to nine. 

Too late to go away to-night. Was it too late? 
A sudden memory leapt to her mind. 

Jimmy and she had gone down to Upton House 
by a train later than this the day after her mother 
died. She tried to remember; it had been the nine- 
fifty from Euston, she was sure. She made a rapid 


CHRISTINE HEARS THE TRUTH 129 

calculation; she could catch that if she was quick — 
catch it if she hurried. She threw off her slippers; 
she began to collect a few things together in a hand- 
bag; her breath was coming fast — her heart was rac- 
ing. She would never come back any more — never 
live with him again. She had lost her last shred of 
trust in him — she no longer loved him. 

She was pinning on her hat with shaking fingers 
when someone tried the handle of the door — some- 
one called her name softly. 

“Christine . . .” It was Jimmy. 

She stood quite still, hardly daring to breathe. 
She pressed her hands over her lips, as if afraid that 
he would hear the quick beating of her frightened 
heart. 

“Christine . . .” He waited a moment, then she 
heard him saying something under his breath impa- 
tiently; another second, and he turned away to the 
sitting-room opposite. 

She heard him moving about there for some time; 
she looked at the clock. Almost too late to go now; 
a fever of impatience consumed her. 

If only he had not come back — if only she had 
gone sooner. 

She turned out the light, and softly, an inch at a 
time, opened the door. There was a light burning 
in the sitting-room; there was a smell of cigarette 
smoke. Jimmy was still there. 

She wondered if she could get away without him 
hearing her; she tiptoed back into the room, took up 
her bag from the bed, and crept again to the door. 

The floor seemed to creak at every step. Half a 


130 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


dozen times she stopped, frightened; then suddenly 
the half-closed door of the sitting-room opposite 
opened, and Jimmy came out. 

He was in evening-dress; he still w r ore a loose 
overcoat. 

For a moment he stared at her blankly. The 
lights had been lowered a little in the corridor, and 
at first he was not sure if it was she. Then he strode 
across to her and caught her by the wrist in a not 
very gentle grip. 

“Where are you going ?” he asked roughly. 

She cowered back from him against the wall; her 
face was white, but her eyes blazed at him in pas- 
sionate defiance. 

“I am going away. Let me go. I am never com- 
ing back any more.” 

He half led, half dragged her into the sitting- 
room ; he put his back to the door, and stood looking 
at her, white-faced, silent. 

The breath was tearing from his throat; he seemed 
afraid to trust himself to speak. 

Presently : 

“Why?” he asked hoarsely. 

Christine was standing against the table, one trem- 
bling hand resting on it; she was afraid of him and 
of the white passion in his face, but she faced him 
bravely. 

“I am never going to live with you any more. 
I — I wish I had never seen you.” 

Even her voice seemed to have changed; he real- 
ized it dully, and the knowledge added to his anger. 
She no longer spoke in the half-trembling childish 


CHRISTINE HEARS THE TRUTH 13 1 


way he remembered; there was something more 
grown-up and womanly about her. 

“Don’t be a little fool,” he said roughly. “What 
is the matter? What have I done now? I’m sick 
to death of these scenes and heroics; for God’s sake 
try and behave like a rational woman. Do you want 
the whole hotel to know that we’ve quarrelled?” 

“They know already,” she told him fiercely. 

He came nearer to her. 

“Take off your hat and coat, Christine, and don’t 
be absurd. Why, we’ve only been married a little 
more than a week.” His voice was quieter and more 
gentle. “What’s the matter? Let’s sit down and 
talk things over quietly. I’ve something to tell you. 
I wanted to see you to-night; I came to your door 
just now.” 

“I know- — I heard you.” 

“Very well; what’s it all about? What have I 
done to upset you like this?” 

She shut her eyes for a moment. When he spoke 
to her so kindly it almost broke her heart; it brought 
back so vividly the boy sweetheart whom she had 
never really forgotten. And yet this Jimmy was not 
the Jimmy she had known in those happy days. 
This Jimmy only looked at her with the same eyes; 
in reality he was another man — -a stranger whom she 
feared and almost hated. 

He took her hand. 

“Christine — are you ill?” 

She opened her eyes ; they were blazing. 

The touch of his fingers on hers seemed to drive 
her mad. 


I3 2 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“Yes,” she said shrilly. “I am — ill because of 
you and your lies, and your hateful deception; ill 
because you’ve broken my heart and ruined my life. 
You swore to me that you’d never see Cynthia Far- 
row again. You swore to me that it was all over and 
done with; and now — now ” 

“Yes — now,” said Jimmy; his voice was hoarse 
and strained. “Yes — and now,” he said again, as 
she did not answer. 

She wrenched herself free. 

“You’ve been with her this evening. You’ve left 
me alone here all these hours to be with her. I 
don’t count at all in your life. I don’t know why 
you married me, unless it was to — to pay her out. 
I wish I’d never seen you. I wish I’d died before 
I ever married you. I wish — oh, I wish I could die 
now,” she ended in a broken whisper. 

Jimmy had fallen back a step; he was no longer 
looking at her. There was a curious expression of 
shocked horror in his eyes as they stared past his 
wife into the silent room. 

Presently: 

“She’s dead,” he said hoarsely. “Cynthia Farrow 
is dead.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


BITTERNESS 

“JT^vEAD!” Christine echoed Jimmy’s hoarse 
1 word in a dull voice, not understanding. 

“Dead !” she said again blankly. 

He moved away from the door; he dropped into a 
chair and hid his face in his hands. 

There was a moment of absolute silence. 

Christine stared at Jimmy’s bowed head with dull 
eyes. 

She was trying to force her brain to work, but 
she could not; she was only conscious of a faint sort 
of curiosity as to whether Jimmy were lying to her; 
but somehow he did not look as if he were. She 
tried to speak to him, but no words would come. 

Suddenly he raised his head; he was very pale. 
“Well?” he said defiantly. 

His eyes were hard and full of hurt; hurt because 
of another woman, Christine told herself, in furious 
pain; hurt because the woman he had really and 
truly loved had gone out of his life for ever. 

She tried to say that she was sorry, but the words 
seemed to choke her — she was not sorry; she was 
glad. She was passionately glad that the beautiful 
woman whom she had at first so ardently admired 
was now only a name between them. 


133 


134 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

“So you’ve no need to be jealous any more,” said 
Jimmy Challoner, after a moment. 

No need to be jealous! There was still the same 
need; death cannot take memory away with it. 
Christine felt as if the dead woman were more cer- 
tainly between them now, keeping them apart, than 
ever before. 

The silence fell again; then suddenly Christine 
moved to the door. 

Jimmy caught her hand. 

“Where are you going? Don’t be a little fool. 
It’s ever so late; you can’t leave the hotel to-night.” 

“I am not going to stay here with you.” She did 
not look at him ; did not even faintly guess how much 
he was longing for a kind word, a little sympathy. 
He had had the worst shock of his inconsequent life 
when, in reply to that urgent summons, he had raced 
round to Cynthia Farrow’s flat, and found that he 
was too late. 

“She died ten minutes ago.” 

Only ten minutes! Jimmy had stared blankly 
at the face of the weeping maid, and then mechani- 
cally taken his watch from his pocket and looked at 
it. Only ten minutes! If he had not had to hang 
about for a taxi he would have been in time to have 
seen her. 

Now he would never see her again; as yet he had 
had no time in which to analyse his feelings; he was 
numbed with the shock of it all; he listened like a 
man in a dream to the details they told him. It 
passed him by unmoved that she had been in Mort- 
lake’s car when the accident occurred; it had con- 


BITTERNESS 


i3S 


veyed nothing to his mind when they told him that 
the only words she had spoken during her brief flash 
of consciousness had been to ask for him. 

As he stood there in the familiar scented pink 
drawing-room, his thoughts had flown with odd in- 
congruity to Christine. 

She would be kind to him — she would be sorry for 
him; his whole heart and soul had been on fire to 
get back to her — to get away from the harrowing 
silence of the flat which had always been associated 
in his mind with fun and laughter, and the happiest 
days of his life. 

A fur coat of Cynthia’s lay across a chair-back; so 
many times he had helped her slip into it after her 
performance at the theatre was ended. He knew 
so well the faint scent that always clung to it; he 
shuddered and averted his eyes. She would never 
wear it again; she was dead! He wondered what 
would become of it — what would become of all her 
clothes, and her jewelry and her trinkets. 

Suddenly, in the middle of more details, he had 
turned and rushed blindly away. It was not so much 
grief as a sort of horror at himself that drove him; 
he felt as if someone had forced him to look on a 
past folly — a folly of which he was now ashamed. 

He had thought of Christine with a sort of pas- 
sionate thankfulness and gratitude; and now there 
was nothing but dislike and contempt for him in her 
brown eyes. Somehow she seemed like a different 
woman to the one whom he had so lightly wooed 
and won such a little while ago. She looked older — 
wiser; the childishness of her face seemed to have 


1 36 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


hardened; it was no longer the little girl Christine 
who faced him in the silent room. 

He broke out again urgently: 

“Don’t be absurd, Christine. I won’t have it, I 
tell you. I forbid you to leave the hotel. After all, 
you’re my wife — you must do as I wish.” She 
seemed not to hear him; she stood with her eyes 
fixed straight in front of her. 

“Please let me go.” 

“Where are you going? You’re my wife — you’ll 
have to stay with me.” His hand was on the door 
handle now; he was looking down at her with hag- 
gard eyes in his white face. 

“Let’s begin all over again, Christine. I’ve been 
a rotter, I know; but if you’ll have a little patience 
— it’s not too late — we can patch things up, and — 
and I’ll promise you ” 

She cut him short. 

“You are saying this because she is dead. If she 
were living you would not care what I did, or what 
became of me.” Suddenly her voice changed wildly. 
“Oh, let me go — let me go!” 

For a moment their glances met, and for the first 
time in his spoilt and pampered life Jimmy Challoner 
saw hatred looking at him through a woman’s eyes. 
It drove the hot blood to his head; he was un- 
nerved with the shock he had suffered that evening. 
For a moment he saw the world red; he lifted his 
clenched fist. 

“Go, then — and a damned good riddance!” 

“Jimmy!” Her scream of terror stayed his hand, 


BITTERNESS 


137 

and kept him from striking her. He staggered back, 
aghast at the thing he had so nearly done. 

“Christine — Christine ” he stammered; but 

she had gone. The shutting and locking of her 
bedroom door was his only answer. 


CHAPTER XV 


SANGSTER SPEAKS IN RIDDLES 

S ANGSTER heard of Cynthia Farrow’s death 
late that night. 

He was walking up Fleet Street when he 
ran into a man he knew — a man whom Jimmy knew 
also; he stopped and caught him by his buttonhole. 
“I say, have you heard — awful thing, isn’t it?” 
Sangster stared. 

“Heard! Heard what?” 

“About Cynthia Farrow. Flad a frightful acci- 
dent — in Mortlake’s car.” 

Sangster’s eyes woke to interest. 

“Badly hurt?” he asked briefly. 

“Dead!” 

“My God!” There was a moment of tragic si- 
lence. “Dead!” said Sangster again. He could not 
believe it; his face was very pale. “Dead!” he said 
again. His thoughts flew to Jimmy Challoner. 
“Are you sure?” he asked urgently. “There’s no 
mistake — you’re quite sure?” 

“Sure! Man alive, it’s in all the papers! TheyVe 
all got hold of a different story, of course; some 
say she never recovered consciousness, and 

others ” He lowered his voice. “I happen to 

know that she did,” he added confidentially. “She 
138 


SANGSTER SPEAKS IN RIDDLES 139 

sent for Challoner, and he was with her when she 
died.” 

“Challoner — Jimmy Challoner!” Sangster re- 
peated his friend’s name dully. The one shocked 
thought of his heart was “Christine.” 

“I always knew she really liked him,” the other 
man went on complacently. “If he’d had Mortlake’s 
money ” He shrugged his shoulders signifi- 

cantly. 

Sangster waited to hear no more ; he went straight 
to Jimmy’s hotel. It was late then — nearly eleven. 
The hall porter said in reply to his inquiry that Mr. 
and Mrs. Challoner had both been in all the evening, 
he thought, and were still in; he looked at Sangster’s 
agitated face curiously. 

“Was you wishing to see Mr. Challoner, sir?” 

“No — oh, no. I only thought — you need not tell 
him that I called.” He went away wretchedly; he 
wondered if Christine knew — and if so, what she 
must be thinking. 

He never slept all night. He was on the ’phone 
to Jimmy long before breakfast; he was infinitely 
relieved to hear Jimmy’s voice. 

“Hallo — yes, I’m all right, thanks. Want to see 
me ? Well ” 

There was a pause here. Sangster waited in a 
fever of impatience. After a moment: 

“I’ll meet you for lunch, if you like. . . . No, 
can’t before. . . . What do you say? Christine? 
Oh, yes — yes, thanks; she’s very well.” 

There was another pause. “One o’clock, then.” 

Jimmy rang off. 


140 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Sangster felt easier as he sat down to his break- 
fast. Jimmy’s voice had sounded fairly normal, if 
a little constrained; and it was not such a very long 
time till one o’clock, when he would hear all there 
was to hear. 

He forced himself to work all the morning. He 
did not even glance at a paper; he knew they would 
be full of Cynthia Farrow’s accident and tragic 
death; he dreaded lest there might be some inad- 
vertent allusion made to Jimmy. He was still hop- 
ing that Christine would never know that Jimmy had 
been sent for; he rightly guessed that if she heard it 
would mean a long farewell to any hope of happiness 
in her married life. 

Jealousy — bitter jealousy; that was what had been 
rending her heart, he knew. He stopped writing; 
he took up a pencil, and absently began scribbling 
on his blotter. 

If Cynthia were out of the way, there was no rea- 
son why, in time, Jimmy and his wife should not be 
perfectly happy. He hoped with all his heart that 
they would be; he would have given a great deal 
to have seen Christine smiling and radiant once 
more, as she had been that night when they all had 
supper at Marino’s. 

He sighed heavily; he looked at the lines he had 
been so absently scribbling. 

Christine — Christine — Christine. Nothing but 
her name. It stared up at him in all shapes and 
sizes from the blotter. Sangster flushed dully; he 
tore the sheet of paper free, and tossed it into the 


SANGSTER SPEAKS IN RIDDLES 141 

fire. What was he dreaming about? Where were 
ihis thoughts? 

He had arranged to meet Jimmy at the same little 
restaurant where yesterday he had taken Christine 
to lunch. He was there a quarter of an hour before 
the appointed time. 

When Jimmy arrived Sangster glanced at him anx- 
iously. He was very pale; his eyes looked defiant; 
there was a hard fold to his lips. 

“Hallo!” he said laconically; he sat down opposite 
to Sangster. “I don’t want any lunch; you fire 
away.” 

He seemed to avoid Sangster’s eyes; there was a 
little awkward silence. 

“How’s the wife?” Sangster asked nervously. 

Jimmy laughed mirthlessly. 

“She’s left me; she says she’ll never live with me 
again.” 

“Left you!” 

“Yes. . . . Oh, don’t look so scandalised, man! 
I saw her off from Euston myself; it was all out- 
wardly quite a friendly arrangement. She’s gone 
down to Upton House; she’s going to have a friend 
of hers to stay with her for a time — a Miss Leigh- 
ton ” He paused, and went on heavily: “Of 

course, you’ve heard about — about ” 

“Yes ” 

“Well — well, they sent for me. It was too late! 
She — she was dead when I got there; but Christine 
found out somehow — I don’t know how. I give you 
my word of honour I meant to have told her; but 
— she wouldn’t believe anything I said. . . . We 


142 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


— we had a row last night; I dare say it was my 
fault. I was upset, of course ” 

“Of course.” 

“And this morning I tried to apologise. I asked 
her to overlook everything that had happened, and 
— and start again.” Jimmy laughed dully. “I — 
well, I believe she hates the sight of me.” 

Jimmy caught his breath hard on the memory of 
the burning hatred that had looked at him from 
Christine’s beautiful brown eyes. 

“It’s quite for the best — this arrangement. Don’t 
think I’m blaming her — I’m not; perhaps if she’d 
been a little older — if she’d known a little more 
about the world — she’d have been more tolerant; I 
don’t know. Anyway, she’s gone.” He raised his 
humiliated eyes to Sangster’s distressed face. 

“She will forgive you. She’s hurt now, of course; 
but later on . . .” 

Jimmy shook his head. 

“She’s made me promise to keep away from her 
for six months. I had no option — she thinks 
the worst of me, naturally. She thinks that I — I 
cared for — for Cynthia — right up to the end. . . . 
I didn’t.” He stopped, choking. “She’s dead — 
don’t let’s talk about it,” he added. 

Sangster had hardly touched his lunch; he sat 
smoking fast and furiously. 

“Six months is a long time,” he said at last. 

“Yes — it’s only a polite way of saying she never 
wants to see me again; and I don’t blame her.” 

“That’s absurd; she’s too fond of you.” 

Jimmy hunched his shoulders. 


SANGSTER SPEAKS IN RIDDLES 143 

“That’s what I tried to flatter myself; but I know 
better now.- She — she wouldn’t even shake hands 
with me when I said ‘good-bye’ to her at Euston.” 
There was a little silence. The thoughts of both 
men flew to Christine as she had been when she first 
came to London; so happy — so radiantly happy. 

And Jimmy could look farther back still; could 
see her as she had been in the old days at Upton 
House when she had been his first love. Jimmy gave 
a great sigh. 

“What a damnable hash-up, eh?” he said. 

“It’ll all come right — I’m certain it will.” 

Jimmy looked at him affectionately. 

“Dear old optimist!” He struck a match and lit 
the cigarette which had been hanging listlessly be- 
tween his lips. “I suppose — if you’d run down and 
have a look at her now and then,” he said awk- 
wardly. “She likes you — and you could let me know 
if she’s all right.” 

“If you don’t think she would consider it an in- 
trusion.” 

“I am sure she wouldn’t; and you’ll like Upton 
House.” Jimmy’s voice was dreamily reminiscent. 
“It’s to be sold later on, you know; but for the 
present Christine will live there. ... It would be 
a real kindness if you would run down now and then, 
old chap.” 

“I will, of course, if you’re sure ” 

“I’m quite sure. Christine likes you.” 

“Very well.” 

Sangster kept his eyes downbent; somehow he 
could not meet Jimmy’s just then. 


144 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“And you — what are you going to do?” he asked 
presently. 

“I shall go back to my old rooms for a time, and 
take Costin with me; he’ll be pleased, anyway, with 
the new arrangement. It was really funny the way 
he tried to congratulate me when I told him I was 
going to be married ” He broke off, remember- 

ing that afternoon, and the w^ay Cynthia had come 
into the room as they were talking. 

He would never see her again; never meet the 
seductive pleading of her eyes any more; never hear 
her laughing voice calling to him, “Jimmy dear.” 

The thought was intolerable. He moved rest- 
lessly in his chair; the sweat broke out on his 
forehead. 

“My God! it seems impossible that she’s dead,” 
he said hoarsely. 

Sangster did not look up. 

There was a long pause. 

“She was in Mortlake’s car, you know,” said 
Jimmy again, disjointedly. 

Sangster nodded. 

“He’ll be shockingly cut-up,” said Jimmy again. 
“I hated the chap; but he was really fond of her.” 

“Yes.” Jimmy’s cigarette had gone out again, 
and he relit it absently. 

“Christine will never believe that it hasn’t broken 
my heart,” he said in a queer voice. 

No answer. 

“You won’t believe it either?” he said. 

The eyes of the two men met; Jimmy flushed 
scarlet. 


SANGSTER SPEAKS IN RIDDLES 145 

“It’s the truth,” he said. “I think, ever since I 
knew that she — that she had tried to get rid of 

me ” He stopped painfully. “It makes me 

wonder if I ever — ever really, you know.” 

“We all make mistakes — bad mistakes,” said 
Sangster kindly. 

Jimmy smiled a little. 

“You old philosopher ... I don’t believe you’ve 
ever cared a hang for a woman in all your life.” 

“Oh, yes I have.” Sangster’s eyes were staring 
past Jimmy, down the little room. 

“Really?” Jimmy was faintly incredulous. 
“Who was she — wouldn’t she have you?” 

“I never asked her, and she is married now — to 
another man.” 

“A decent fellow?” 

There was a little silence, then: 

“I think he’ll turn out all right,” said Sangster 
quietly. “I hope so.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE PAST RETURNS 

C HRISTINE had learned a great deal since her 
marriage. As she stood on the platform at 
Euston that morning with Jimmy Challoner 
she felt old enough to be the grandmother of the 
girl who had looked up at him with such glad recog- 
nition less than a month ago in the theatre. 

Old enough, and sad enough. 

She could not bear to look at him now. It cut her 
to the heart to see the listless droop of his shoulders 
and the haggard lines of his face. It was not for her 
— his sorrow; that was the thought she kept steadily 
before her eyes; it was not because he had offended 
and hurt her past forgiveness; but because Cynthia 
Farrow was now only a name and a memory. 

The train was late in starting. Jimmy stood on 
the platform trying to make conversation; he had 
bought a pile of magazines and a box of chocolates 
which lay disregarded beside Christine on the seat; 
he had ordered luncheon for her, although she 
protested again and again that she should not eat 
anything. 

He racked his brains to think if there were any 
other little service he could do for her. He was full 
of remorse and shame as he stood there. 

146 


THE PAST RETURNS 


147 


She had been so fond of him — she had meant to 
be so happy; and now she was glad to be leaving 
him. 

The guard blew his whistle. Jimmy turned hastily, 
the blood rushing to his white face. 

“If you ever want me, Christine ” She 

seemed not to be listening, and he broke off, only 
to stumble on again: “Try and forgive me — try not 
to think too hardly of me.” She looked at him 
then; her beautiful eyes were hard and unyielding. 

The train had begun to move slowly from the 
platform. Jimmy was on the footboard; he spoke 
to her urgently. 

“Say you forgive me, Christine. If you’ll just 
shake hands ” 

She drew back, as if she found him distasteful. 

The train was gathering speed. A porter made a 
grab at Jimmy. 

“Stand back, sir.” 

Jimmy obeyed mechanically. Christine would not 
have cared had he been killed, he told himself 
savagely. 

But for his pig-headed foolishness, he and 
Christine might have been going down to Upton 
House together; but for the past 

“Damn the past!” said Jimmy Challoner as he 
turned on his heel and walked away. 

***** 

But the past was very real to Christine as she sat 
there alone in a corner of the first-class carriage into 


148 the second honeymoon 

which Jimmy had put her, and stared before her with 
dull eyes at a row of photographs advertising seaside 
places. 

This was the end of all her dreams of happiness. 
She and Jimmy were separated; it seemed impossible 
that they had ever really been married — that she was 
really his wife and he her husband. 

She dragged off her glove, and looked at her 
wedding ring; she had never taken it off since the 
moment in that dingy London church when Jimmy 
had slipped it on. 

And yet it was such an empty symbol. He had 
never loved her; he had married her because some 
other woman, whom he did love, was beyond his 
reach. 

She did not cry; she seemed to have shed all the 
tears in her heart. She just sat there motionless as 
the train raced her back to the old house and the 
old familiar scenes, where she had been happy — 
many years ago — with Jimmy Challoner. 

He had wired to Gladys Leighton; Gladys would 
be there at the station to meet her. She wondered 
what she would say to her. 

She thought of the uncle who had journeyed to 
London with such reluctance to give her away; he 
would tell her that it served her right, she was sure. 
Even on her wedding day he had trotted out the old 
maxim of marrying in haste. 

Christine smiled faintly as she thought of him; 
after all, she need not see much of him — he did not 
live near Upton House. When the restaurant 
attendant came to tell her that lunch was ready, she 


THE PAST RETURNS 


149 

followed him obediently. Jimmy had tipped him 
half-a-crown to make sure that Christine went to the 
dining-car. She even enjoyed her meal. A man 
sitting at the same table with her looked at her 
curiously from time to time; he was rather a good- 
looking man. Once when she dropped her gloves he 
stooped and picked them up for her; later on he 
pulled up the window because he saw her shiver a 
little. ‘‘These trains are well warmed as a rule,” he 
said. 

Christine looked at him timidly. 

She liked his face ; something about his eyes made 
her think of Jimmy. 

“Are you travelling far?” he asked presently. 

She told him — only to Osterway. 

He smiled suddenly. 

“I am going there, too. Do you happen to know 
a place called Upton House?” 

Christine flushed. 

“It’s my home,” she said. “I live there.” 

“What a coincidence. I heard it was in the 
market — I am going down with a view to purchase.” 

Her face saddened. 

“Yes — it is to be sold. My mother died last 
month. . . . Everything is to be sold.” 

“You are sorry to have to part with it?” he asked 
her sympathetically. 

“Yes.” Tears rose to her eyes, and she brushed 
them, ashamedly away. “I’ve lived there all my 
life,” she told him. “All my happiest days have 
been spent there.” She was thinking of Jimmy, and 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


150 

the days when he rode old Judas barebacked round 
the paddock. 

The stranger was looking at Christine inter- 
estedly; he glanced down at her left hand, from 
which she had removed the glove; he was surprised 
to see that she wore a wedding ring. 

Surely she could not be married — that child! 

He looked again at the mourning she wore; per- 
haps her husband was dead. He forgot for the 
moment that she had just told him of the death of 
her mother. 

He questioned her interestedly about Osterway. 
What sort of a place was it? Were the people 
round about sociable? He liked plenty of friends, 
he said. 

Christine answered eagerly that everyone was 
very nice. To hear her talk one would have im- 
agined that Osterway was a little heaven on earth. 
The last few weeks, with their excitement and dis- 
illusionment, had made the past seem all the more 
roseate by contrast. She told this man that she 
would rather live in Osterway than anywhere else; 
that she only wished she were sufficiently well off 
to keep Upton House. 

When the train ran into the station he asked 
diffidently if he might be allowed to drive her home. 

“My car is down here,” he explained. “I sent it 
on with my man. I am staying in the village for a 
few days. . . . Upton House is some way from the 
station, I believe?” 

“Two miles. ... I should like to drive home 


THE PAST RETURNS 


151 

with you,” she told him shyly. “Only I am meeting 
a friend here.” 

“Perhaps your friend will drive with us, too,” he 
said. 

Christine thought it a most excellent arrangement. 
She looked eagerly up and down the platform for 
Gladys Leighton, but there was no sign of her. 

“Perhaps she never got my telegram,” she said in 
perplexity. She asked the stationmaster if there had 
been a lady waiting for the train; but he had seen 
nobody. 

The man with whom she had travelled down from 
London stood patiently beside her. 

“Shall we drive on?” he suggested. “We may 
meet your friend on the road.” 

They went out to the big car; there was a smart 
man in livery to drive them. Christine and her com- 
panion sat together in the back seat. They drove 
slowly the first half-mile, but there was no sign of 
Gladys anywhere. Christine felt depressed. She 
had counted on Gladys; she had been so sure that 
she w^ould not fail her; she began to wonder if 
Jimmy had sent that wire; she hated herself for the 
thought, but her whole belief and idea of him had 
got hopelessly inverted during the past days. 

They seemed to reach Upton House very quickly. 

“You are evidently expected,” her companion 
said; “judging by the look of the house.” 

The front door stood open; the wide gate to the 
drive was fastened back. As the car stopped the 
housekeeper came to the door; she looked in- 


152 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


terestedly at Christine, and with faint amazement 
at her companion. For the first time Christine felt 
embarrassed; she wondered if perhaps she had been 
foolish to accept this man’s offer of an escort. When 
they were inside the house she turned to him timidly. 

“Will you tell me your name? It — it seems so 
funny not to know your name. Mine is Christine 
Wyatt — Challoner, I mean,” she added with a flush 
of embarrassment. 

“My name is Kettering — Alfred Kettering.” He 
smiled down at her. “The name Challoner is very 
familiar to me,” he said. “My greatest friend is a 
man named Challoner.” 

Christine caught her breath. 

“Not — Jimmy?” she asked. 

“No — Horace. He has a young brother named 
Jimmy, though — a disrespectful young scamp, who 
always called Horace ‘the Great Horatio.’ You 
don’t happen to know them, I suppose?” 

Christine had flushed scarlet. 

“He is my husband,” she said in a whisper. 

“Your — husband!” Kettering stared at her with 
amazed eyes, then suddenly he held out his hand. 
“That makes us quite old friends, then, doesn’t it?” 
he said with change of voice. “I have known 
Horace Challoner all my life; as a matter of fact, I 
was with him all last summer in Australia. I have 
been home myself only a few weeks.” 

Christine did not know what to say. She knew 
that this man must be wondering where Jimmy was; 
that it w T as more than probable that he would write 
to the Great Horatio and inform him of their chance 


THE PAST RETURNS 


153 

meeting, and of anything else which he might 
discover about her mistaken marriage. 

“I don’t think Horace knows that his brother is 
married, does he?” the man said again, Christine 
raised her eyes. 

“We’ve only been married ten days,” she said 
tremulously. 

“Is that so? Then I am not too late to offer you 
my most sincere congratulations, and to wish you 
every happiness.” He took her hand in a kindly 
grip. 

Christine tried to thank him, but somehow she 
seemed to have lost her voice. She moved on across 
the hall into the dining-room, where there was a 
cheery fire burning and tea laid. 

“You will have some tea with me,” she said. 
“And then afterwards I will show you over the house 
— if you really want to see it?” She looked up at 
him wistfully. “I should like you to have it, I 
think,” she told him hesitatingly. “If it has got to 
be sold, I should like to know that somebody — nice 
— has bought it.” 

“Thank you.” He stood back to the fire, watch- 
ing her as she poured out the tea. 

Married — this child! It seemed so absurd. She 
looked about seventeen. 

Suddenly: 

“And where is Jimmy?” he asked her abruptly. 
“I wonder if he would remember me ! Hardly, I 
expect; it’s a great many years since we met.” 

Christine had been expecting the question; she 
kept her face averted as she answered: 


154 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“Jimmy is in London ; he saw me off this morning. 
He — he isn’t able to come down just yet.” 

There was a little silence. 

“I see,” said Kettering. Only ten days married, 
and not able to come down. Jimmy had never done 
an hour’s work in his life, so far as Kettering could 
remember. He knew quite well that he was living 
on an allowance from his brother; it seemed a 
curious sort of situation altogether. 

He took his tea from Christine’s hands. He 
noticed that they trembled a little, as if she were very 
nervous, he tried to put her at her ease; he spoke 
no more of Jimmy. 

“I wonder what has happened to your friend?” 
he said cheerily. “I dare say she will turn up here 
directly.” 

“I hope she will.” Christine glanced towards the 
window; it was rapidly getting dusk. “I hope she 
will,” she said again apprehensively. “I should hate 
having to stay here by myself.” She shivered a 
little as she spoke. She turned to him suddenly. 

“Are you — married?” she asked interestedly. 

He laughed. 

“No. . . . Why do you ask?” 

“I was only wondering. I hope you don’t think 
it rude of me to have asked you. I was only 
thinking that — if you were married and had any 
children, this is such a lovely house for them. When 
we were all little we used to have such fine times. 
There is a beautiful garden and a great big room 
that runs nearly the length of the house upstairs, 
which we used to have for a nursery.” 


THE PAST RETURNS 


155 

“You had brothers and sisters, then?” 

“No — but Jimmy was always here; and Gladys — 
Gladys is the friend I am expecting — she is like my 
own sister, really!” 

“I see.” His eyes watched her with an odd sort 
of tenderness in them. “And so you have known 
Jimmy a great many years?” he asked. 

“Ail my life.” 

“Then you know his brother as well?’'’ 

“I have met him — yes; but I dare say he has 
forgotten all about me.” 

“He will be very pleased with Jimmy’s choice of 
a wife,” he answered her quickly. “He always had 
and idea that Jimmy would bring home a golden- 
haired lady from behind the footlights, I think,” he 
added laughingly. 

He broke off suddenly at sight of the pain in little 
Christine’s face. There was an awkward silence. 
Christine herself broke it. 

“Shall we go and look over the house before it 
gets quite dark?” 

She had taken off her coat and furs; she moved 
to the door. 

Kettering followed silently. He was fully con- 
scious that in some way he had blundered by his 
laughing reference to a “golden-haired lady of the 
footlights” ; he felt instinctively that there was some- 
thing wrong with this little girl and her marriage — 
that she was not happy. 

He tried to remember what sort of a fellow 
Jimmy had been in the old days; but his memory of 
him was vague. He knew that Horace had often 


1 56 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


complained bitterly of Jimmy’s extravagance — knew 
that there had often been angry scenes between the 
two Challoners ; but he could not recall having heard 
of anything actually to Jimmy’s discredit. 

And, anyway, surely no man on earth could ever 
treat this little girl badly, even supposing — even 
supposing 

‘‘It’s not such a very big house,” Christine was 
saying, and he woke from his reverie to answer her. 
“But it’s very pretty, don’t you think?” She opened 
a door on the left. “This used to be our nursery,” 
she told him. They stood together on the thres- 
hold; the room was long and low-ceilinged, with a 
window at each end. 

A big rocking-horse covered over with a dust- 
sheet stood in one corner; there was a doll’s house 
and a big toy box together in another. The whole 
room was painfully silent and tidy, as if it had long 
since forgotten what it meant to have children 
playing there — as if even the echoes of pattering 
feet and shrill voices had deserted it. 

Kettering glanced down at Christine. Her little 
face was very sad; she was looking at the big rock- 
ing-horse, and there were tears in her eyes. 

She and Jimmy had so often ridden its impossible 
back together; this deserted room was full of Jimmy 
and her mother — to her sad heart it was peopled 
with ghost faces, and whispering voices that would 
never come any more. 

Kettering turned away. 

“Shall we see the rest of the house?” he asked. 
He hated that look of sadness in her face; he wa9 


THE PAST RETURNS 


157 

surprised because he felt such a longing to comfort 
her. 

But they had no time to see the rest of the house, 
for at that moment someone called, “Christine — 
Christine,” from the hall below, and Christine 
clasped her hands delightedly. 

“That is Gladys. Oh, I am so glad — so glad.” 

She forgot all about Kettering; she ran away from 
him, and down the stairs in childish delight. He 
followed slowly. He reached the hall just in time 
to see her fling herself into the arms of a tall girl 
standing there; just in time to hear smothered ejacu- 
lations. 

“You poor darling!” and “Oh, Gladys!” and the 
sound of many kisses. 

He stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to 
do. Over Christine’s head, his eyes met those of the 
elder girl. She smiled. 

“Christine . . . you didn’t tell me you had vis- 
itors.” 

Christine looked up, all smiles now and apologies, 
as she said: 

“Oh, I am so sorry — I forgot.” She introduced 
them. “Mr. Kettering — Miss Leighton. . . . Mr. 
Kettering has been looking over the house; I hope 
he will buy it,” she added childishly. 

“It’s a shame it has got to be sold,” said Gladys 
bluntly. There was something very taking about 
her, in spite of red hair and an indifferent com- 
plexion; she had honest blue eyes and a pleasant 
voice. She looked at Kettering a great deal as she 
6poke; perhaps she noticed how often his eyes rested 


1 58 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

on Christine. When presently they went out into 
the garden, she walked between them; she kept an 
arm about Christine’s little figure. 

“I missed the train,” she explained. “I got your 
husband’s wire, Christine. Oh, yes, I got it all right, 
and I rushed to pack the very minute; but the cab 
was slow, and I just missed the train. However, 
I’m here all right.” 

She looked at Kettering. 

“Do you live near here?” she asked him. 

“No; but I am hoping to soon,” he said; and again 
she wondered if it were only her imagination that 
his eyes turned once more to Christine. 

When they got back to the house he bade them 
“good-bye.” The big car was still waiting in the 
drive; its headlights were lit now, and they shone 
through the darkness like watchful eyes. 

“Who is he, anyway?” Gladys asked Christine 
bluntly, when Kettering had driven off. Christine 
shook her head. 

“I don’t know; he came down in the train with 
me, and we had lunch at the same table, and he 
spoke. He was coming down here to look at our 
house, and so — well, we came up together.” 

“What do you think Jimmy would say?” 

“Jimmy!” There was such depths of bitterness 
in Christine’s voice that the elder girl stared. 

“Jimmy! He wouldn’t care what I did, or what 
became of me. I — I — I’m never going to live with 
him any more.” 

Gladys opened her mouth to say something, and 
closed it again. 


THE PAST RETURNS 


i59 


She had guessed that there had been something 
behind that urgent wire from Jimmy, but she wisely 
asked no questions. They went back into the house 
together. 

“You’ll have to know in the end, so I may as well 
tell you now,” Christine said hopelessly. She sat 
down on the rug by the fire, a forlorn little figure 
enough in her black frock. 

She told the whole story from beginning to end. 
She blamed nobody; she just spoke as if the whole 
thing had been a muddle which nobody could have 
foreseen or averted. 

Gladys listened silently. She was a very sensible 
girl; she seldom gave an impulsive judgment on any 
subject; but now 

“Jimmy wants his neck wrung ” she said vehem- 
ently. 

Christine looked up with startled eyes. 

“Oh, how can you say such a thing!” 

“Because it’s true.” Gladys looked very angry. 
“He’s behaved in a rotten way; men always do, it 
seems to me. He married you to spite this — this 
other woman, whoever she was! and then — even 
then he didn’t try to make it up to you, or be ordi- 
narily decent and do his best, did he?” 

“He didn’t love me, you see; and so ” Chris- 

tine defended him. 

“He’ll never love anyone in the wide world except 
himself,” Gladys declared disgustedly. “I remember 
years ago, when we were all kiddies together, how 
selfish he was, and how you always gave in to him. 
Christine” — she stretched out her hand impulsively 


i6o 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


to the younger girl — “do you love him very much?” 
she asked. 

Christine put her head down on her arms. 

“Oh, I did — I did,” she said, ashamedly. “Some- 
times I wonder if — if he hadn’t been quite so — so 
sure of me ! if — if he would have cared just a little 
bit more. He must have known all along that I 
wanted him; and so ” She broke off desolately. 

The two girls sat silent for a moment. 

“And now — what’s he going to do now?” Gladys 
demanded. 

Christine sighed. 

“I told him I didn’t want to see him. I told him 
I didn’t want him to come down here for six months 
— and he promised. . . . He isn’t to come or even 
to write unless — unless I ask him to.” 

“And then — what happens then?” 

Christine began to cry. 

“Oh, 1 don’t know — I don’t know,” she sobbed. 
“I am so miserable — I wish I were dead.” 

Gladys laid a hand on her bowed head. 

“You’re so young, Christine,” she said sadly. 
“Somehow I don’t believe you’ll ever grow up.” She 
had not got the heart to tell her that she thought 
this six months separation could do no good at all 
— that it would only tend to widen the breach al- 
ready between them. 

She was a pretty good judge of character; she 
knew quite well what sort of a man Jimmy Challoner 
was. And six months — well, six months was a long 
time. 

“Mr. Kettering knows Jimmy’s brother,” Chris- 


THE PAST RETURNS 


161 


tine said presently, drying her eyes. “So I suppose if 
he comes to live anywhere near here, he will know 
what — what is the matter with — with me and Jimmy, 
and he’ll write and tell Horace.” 

“And then Jimmy will get his allowance stopped, 
and serve him right,” said Gladys bluntly. 

Christine cried out in dismay: 

“Oh, but that would be dreadful! What would 
he do?” 

“Work, like other men, of course.” 

But Christine would not listen. 

“I shall ask Mr. Kettering not to tell Horace — if 
I ever see him again,” she said agitatedly. 

Gladys laughed dryly. 

“Oh, you’ll see him again right enough,” she said 
laconically. 


CHAPTER XVII 


JIMMY BREAKS OUT 

I T took Jimmy a whole week to realise that Chris- 
tine meant what she said when she asked him 
not to write to her, or go near her. At first he 
had been so sure that in a day or two at most she 
would be sorry, and want to see him; somehow he 
could not believe that the little unselfish girl he had 
known all his life could so determinedly make up 
her mind and stick to it. 

He grumbled and growled to Sang§ter every time 
they met. 

“I was a fool to let her go. The law is on my 
side; I could have insisted that she stayed with me.” 
He looked at his friend. U I could have insisted, I 
say!” he repeated. 

Sangster raised his eyes. 

“I’m not denying it; but it’s much wiser as it is. 
Leave her alone, and things will work out their own 
salvation.” 

“She’ll forget all about me, and then what will 
happen?” Jimmy demanded. “A nice thing — a very 
nice thing that would be.” 

“No doubt she thinks that is what you wish her 
to do.” 

Jimmy called him a fool; he threw a half-smoked 


JIMMY BREAKS OUT 163 

cigarette into the 'fire, and sat watching it burn with 
a scowl on his face. 

The last week had seemed endless. He had kept 
away from the club; the men in the club always 
knew everything — he had learned that by previous 
experience ; he had no desire for the shower of chaff 
which he knew would greet his appearance there. 

Married a week — and now Christine had gone! 
It made his soul writhe to think of it. It had hurt 
enough to be jilted; but this — well, this struck at his 
pride even more deeply. 

“I thought you promised me to go down to Upton 
House and see how things were,” he growled at 
Sangster. “You haven’t been, have you? I suppose 
you don’t mean to go either?” 

“My dear chap ” 

“Oh, don’t ‘dear chap’ me,” Jimmy struck in ir- 
ritably. “Go if you mean to go. . . . After all, 
if anything happens to Christine, it’s my responsi- 
bility ” 

“Then you should go yourself.” 

“I promised I wouldn’t — unless she asked me to. 
If you were anything of a sport ” 

In the end Sangster consented to go. He was not 
anxious to undertake the journey, much as he wanted 
to see Christine again. At the end of the second 
week he went off early one morning without telling 
Jimmy of his intentions, and was back in town late 
the same night. Jimmy was waiting for him in the 
rooms in the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury. It 
struck Sangster for the first time that Jimmy was 
beginning to look old; his face was drawn — his eyes 


1 64 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

looked worried. He turned on his friend with a sort 
of rage, when he entered. 

“Why couldn’t you have told me where you were 
going. Here I’ve been waiting about all day, won- 
dering where you were and what was up.” 

“I’ve been to see your wife — and there’s 
nothing up.” 

“You mean you didn’t see her?” 

“Oh, yes, I did.” 

“Well — well!” Jimmy’s voice sounded as if his 
nerves were worn to rags; he could hardly keep still. 

“She seemed very cheerful,” said Sangster slowly. 
He spoke with care, as if he were choosing his words. 
“Miss Leighton was with her; and we all had tea 
together.” 

“At Upton House?” 

“Yes.” 

Jimmy’s eyes were gleaming. 

“How does the old place look?” he asked eagerly. 
“Gad! don’t I wish I’d got enough money to buy 
it myself. You’ve no idea what a ripping fine time 
we used to have there years ago.” 

“I’m sure you did; but — well, as a matter of fact, 
I believe the house is sold.” 

“Sold!” 

“Yes; a man named Kettering — a friend of your 
brother’s, I believe — is negotiating for it, at any rate. 
Whether the purchase is really completed or not, 
I ” 

“Kettering!” Jimmy’s voice sounded angry. 
“Kettering — that stuck-up ass!” he said savagely. 
Sangster laughed. 


JIMMY BREAKS OUT 


165 

“I shouldn’t have described his as stuck-up at all,” 
he said calmly. “He struck me as being an extremely 
nice sort of fellow.” 

“Was he there, then?” 

“Yes — he’s staying somewhere in the neighbour- 
hood temporarily, I believe, from what I heard; at 
any rate, he seemed very friendly with — with your 
wife and Miss Leighton.” 

Jimmy began pacing the room. 

“I remember him well,” he said darkly, after a 
moment. “Big chap with a brown moustache — pots 
of money.” He walked the length of the room again. 
“Christine ought not to encourage him,” he burst 
out presently. “What on earth must people think, 
as I’m not there.” 

“I don’t see any harm,” Sangster began mildly. 

Jimmy rounded on him: 

“You — you wouldn’t see harm in anything; but 

Christine’s a very attractive little thing, and ” 

He broke off, flushing dully. “Anyway, I won’t 
have it,” he added snappily. 

“I don’t see how you’re going to stop it, un- 
less V 

“Unless what?” 

“Unless you go down there.” Sangster spoke de- 
liberately now. In spite of his calm assertion that 
there was no harm in Kettering’s visit to Upton 
House, his anxious eyes had noticed the indefinable 
something in Kettering’s manner towards Christine 
that had struck Gladys Leighton that first evening. 
Sangster knew men well, and he knew, without any 
plainer signs or telling, that it was not the house it- 


1 66 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


self that took Kettering there so often, but the little 
mistress of the house, with her sweet eyes and her 
pathetic little smile. 

He got up and laid a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder as 
he spoke. 

“Why not go down yourself?” he said casually. 

Jimmy swore. 

“I said I wouldn’t. . . . I’m not going to be the 
first to give in. It was her doing — she sent me away. 
If she wants me she can say so.” 

“She has her pride, too, you know.” 

Jimmy swore again. He was feeling very ill and 
upset; he was firmly convinced that he was the most 
ill-used beggar in the whole of London. Remorse 
was gnawing hard at his heart, though he was trying 
to believe that it was entirely another emotion. He 
had not slept properly for nights; his head ached, 
and his nerves were jumpy. 

“I’ll not go till she sends for me,” he said again 
obstinately. 

Sangster made no comment. 

He did not see Jimmy again for some days, though 
he heard of him once or twice from a mutual ac- 
quaintance. 

“Challoner’s going to the devil, I should think,” 
so the mutual acquaintance informed him bluntly. 
“What’s the matter with the chap? Hasn’t anybody 
got any influence over him? He’s drinking hard and 
gambling his soul away.” 

Sangster said “Rubbish!” with a confidence he 
was far from feeling. 

He did not really believe it; he knew Jimmy was 


1 67 


JIMMY BREAKS OUT 

a bit reckless and inclined to behave wildly when 
things did not entirely go to his taste, but he con- 
sidered this a gross exaggeration of the truth; he 
made a mental note to look Jimmy up the following 
day. 

But it was the very same night that Costin, Jimmy 
Challoner’s man, presented himself at the rooms in 
the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury and asked 
anxiously for Mr. Sangster. 

Sangster heard his voice in the narrow passage 
outside and recognised it. He left his supper — a 
very meagre supper of bread and cheese, as funds 
were low that week — and went to the door. 

“Do you want me, Costin?” 

The man looked relieved. 

“Yes, sir — if you please, sir. It’s Mr. Challoner, 
I’m afraid he’s very ill, but he won’t let me send for 
a doctor, so I just slipped out and came round to you, 
sir.” 

* * * * * * 

Sangster found Jimmy Challoner huddled up in an 
arm-chair by a roasting fire. His face looked red 
and feverish, his eyes had a sort of unnatural glazed 
look, but he was sufficiently well to be able to swear 
when he saw his friend. 

“Costin fetched you, of course. Interfering old 
idiot ! He thinks I’m ill, but it’s all bally rot ! I’ve 
got a chill, that’s all. What the deuce do you want?” 

Sangster answered good-temperedly that he didn’t 
want anything in particular; privately he agreed with 
Costin that it was more than an ordinary chill that 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


1 68 

had drawn Jimmny’s face and made such hollows 
beneath his eyes. He stood with his back to the fire 
looking down at him dubiously. 

“What have you been up to?” he asked. 

“Up to!” Jimmy echoed the phrase pettishly. 
“I haven’t been up to anything. You talk as if I 
were a blessed brat. One must do something to 
amuse oneself. I’m fed-up — sick to death of this 
infernal life. It’s just a question of killing time from 
hour to hour. I loathe getting up in the morning, I 
hate going to bed at night, I’m sick to death of the 
club and the fools you meet there. I wish to God 
I could end it once and for all.” 

“Humph! Sounds as if you want a tonic,” said 
Sangster in his most matter-of-fact way. He recog- 
nised a touch of hysteria in Jimmy’s voice, and in 
spite of everything he felt sorry for him. 

“Give me a drink,” said Jimmy presently. “That 
idiot, Costin, has kept everything locked up all day. 
I’m as dry as blazes. Give me a drink, there’s a 
good chap.” 

Sangster filled a glass with soda water and brought 
it over to where Jimmy sat huddled up in the big 
chair. He looked a pitiable enough object — he 
wanted shaving, and he had not troubled to put on 
his collar; his feet were thrust into an old pair of 
bedroom slippers. He sipped the soda and pushed 
it away angrily. 

“I don’t want that damned muck,” he said sav- 
agely. 

“I know you don’t, but it’s all you’re going to 
have. Look here, Jimmy, don’t be an ass! You’re 


JIMMY BREAKS OUT 


169 

ill, old chap, or you will be if you go on like this. 
Take my advice and hop off to bed, you’ll feel a heap 
better between the sheets. Can I do anything for 
you — anything ” 

“Yes,” said Jimmy sullenly. “You can — leave me 
to myself.” 

He held his hands to the fire and shivered; Sangs- 
ter looked at him silently for a moment, then he 
shrugged his shoulders and turned towards the door. 
He was out on the landing when Jimmy called his 
name. 

“Well?” 

“Where the deuce are you going?” Jimmy de- 
manded irritably. “Nice sort of pal, you are, to 
go off and leave a chap when he’s sick.” 

Sangster did not make the obvious reply; he came 
back, shutting the door behind him. Jimmy was 
leaning back in his chair now; his face was nearly as 
red as the dressing-gown he wore, but he shivered 
violently from time to time. There was a little si- 
lence, then he opened his eyes and smiled rather 
apologetically. 

“Sorry to be so dull. I haven’t slept for a week.” 

It would have been nearer the truth to say that he 
had hardly closed his eyes since the night of Cynthia 
Farrow’s death, but he knew that if he said that 
Sangster would at once bark up the wrong tree, and 
conclude that he was fretting for her — breaking his 
heart for her, whereas he was doing nothing of the 
kind. 

It was Christine, and not Cynthia, who was on his 
mind day and night, night and day; Christine for 


170 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


whose sake he reproached himself so bitterly and 
could get no rest. She was so young — such a child. 

Every day he found himself remembering some 
new little incident about her; every day some little 
jewel from the past slipped out of the mists of forget- 
fulness and looked at him with sad eyes as if to ask: 
“Have you forgotten me? Don’t you remem- 
ber ” 

He could not help thinking of Christine’s mother 
too; he had been fond of her — she had mothered 
him so much in the old days; he wondered if she 
knew how he had repaid all her kindness; what sort 
of a hash he had made of life for poor little Chris- 
tine. 

“You’d better cut off to bed,” Sangster said again 
bluntly. 

He lit a cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke into 
the air; he was really disturbed about Jimmy. The 
repeated advice seemed to annoy Jimmy; he frowned 
and rose to his feet; he caught his breath with a sort 
of gasp of pain. Sangster turned quickly. 

“What’s up, old chap?” 

“Only my rotten head — it aches like the very 
devil.” 

Jimmy stood for a moment with his hand pressed 
hard over his eyes, then he took a step forward, and 
stopped again. 

“I can’t — I — confound it all ” 

Sangster caught his arm. 

“Don’t be an ass; go to bed.” He raised his 
voice; he called to Costin; between them they put 
Jimmy to bed and tucked him up. He kept pro- 


JIMMY BREAKS OUT 171 

testing that there was nothing the matter with him, 
but he seemed grateful for the darkness of the room, 
and the big pillows beneath his aching head. 

Sangster went back to the sitting-room with Costin. 

“I don’t think we need send for a doctor,” he 
said. “It’s only a chill, I think. See how he is in 
the morning. What’s he been up to, Costin?” 

Costin pursed his lips and raised his brows. 

“He’s been out most nights, sir,” he answered 
stoically. “Only comes home with the milk, as you 
might say. Hasn’t slept at all, and doesn’t eat. It’s 

my opinion, sir, that he’s grieving like ” He 

looked towards the mantelshelf and the place which 
they could both remember had once held Cynthia 
Farrow’s portrait. 

Sangster shook his head. 

“You mean ” he asked reluctantly. 

“Yes, sir.” Costin tiptoed across the room and 
closed the door which led to Jimmy’s bedroom. 
“He’s never been the same, sir, since Miss Farrow 
died — asking your pardon,” he added hurriedly. 

Sangster threw his cigarette end firewards. 

“It’s a rotten business,” he said heavily. In his 
own heart he agreed with Costin; he believed that it 
was Cynthia’s death that was breaking Jimmy’s 
heart. He would have given ten years of his life to 
have been able to believe that it was something else 
quite different. 

“Well, I’ll look in again in the morning,” he said. 
“And if you want me, send round, of course.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Costin helped Sangster on with his coat and saw 


172 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


him to the door; he was dying to ask what had be- 
come of Mrs. Jimmy, but he did not like to. He 
was sure that Jimmy had merely got married out of 
pique, and that he had repented as quickly as one 
generally does repent in such cases. 

Sangster walked back to his rooms; he felt very 
depressed. He was fond of Jimmy though he did 
not approve of him; he racked his brains to know 
what to do for the best. 

When he got home he sat down at his desk and 
stared at the pen and ink for some moments un- 
decidedly; then he began to write. 

He addressed an envelope to Christine down at 
Upton House, and stared at it till it was dry. After 
all, she might resent his interference, and yet, on the 
other hand, if Jimmy were going to be seriously ill, 
she would blame him for not having told her. 

Finally he took a penny from his waistcoat pocket 
and tossed up for it. 

“Heads I write, tails I leave it alone.” 

He tossed badly and the penny came down in the 
waste-paper basket, but it came down heads, and 
with a little lugubrious grimace, Sangster dipped the 
pen in the ink again and squared his elbows. 

He wrote the letter four times before it suited 
him, and even then it seemed a pretty poor epistle to 
his critical eye as he read it through — 

“ Dear Mrs. Challoner , — I am just writing to let you know 
that Jimmy is ill ; nothing very serious , but 1 thought that 
perhaps you would like to know. If you could spare the time 
to come and see him t 1 am sure he would very much appre - 


JIMMY BREAKS OUT 


i73 


date it. He seems very down on his luck. I dont want to 
worry or alarm you , and am keeping an eye on him myself , 
hut thought it only right that you should know. — Your 
sincere friend, 

“Ralph Sangster.” 

It seemed a clumsy enough way of explaining 
things, he thought discontentedly, and yet it was the 
best he could do. He folded the paper and put it 
into the envelope ; he sat for a moment with it in his 
hand looking down at Christine’s married name, 
“Mrs. James Challoner.” 

Poor little Mrs. Jimmy! A wife, and yet no wi£e. 
Sangster lifted the envelope to his lips, and hurriedly 
kissed the name before he thrust the envelope into 
his pocket, and went out to post it. 

Would she come, he wondered? he asked himself 
the question anxiously before he dropped the letter 
into the box. Somehow deep down in his heart he 
did not think that she would. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


KETTERING HEARS SOMETHING 

“T SHALL never be able to manage it if I live 

I to be a hundred,” said Christine despairingly. 

She leaned back in the padded seat of Ket- 
tering’s big car and looked up into his face with 
laughing eyes. 

She had been trying to drive; she had driven the 
car at snail’s pace the length of the drive leading 
from Upton House, and tried to turn out of the open 
carriage gate into the road. 

“If you hadn’t been here we should have gone into 
the wall, shouldn’t we?” she demanded. 

Kettering laughed. 

“I’m very much afraid we should,” he said. “But 
that’s nothing. I did all manner of weird things 
when I first started to drive. Take the wheel again 
and have another try.” 

But Christine refused. 

“I might smash the car, and that would be awful. 
You’d never forgive me.” 

“Should I not!” His grave eyes searched her 
pretty face. “I don’t think you need be very alarmed 

about that,” he said. “However, if you insist ” 

He changed places with her and took the wheel 
himself. 


174 


KETTERING HEARS SOMETHING 175 

It was early morning, and fresh and sunny. Chris- 
tine was flushed and smiling, for the moment at least 
there were no shadows in her eyes; she looked more 
like the girl who had smiled up from the stalls in 
the theatre to where Jimmy Challoner sat alone in 
his box that night of their meeting. 

Jimmy had never once been mentioned between 
herself and this man since that first afternoon. Save^ | £ 
for the fact that Kettering called her “Mrs. Chal- j \ 
loner,” Christine might have been unmarried. 

“Gladys will think we have run away,” she told 
him presently with a little laugh. “I told her we 
should be only half an hour.” 

“Have we been longer?” he asked surprised. 

Christine looked at her watch. 

“Nearly an hour,” she said. “We were muddling 
about in the drive for ever so long, you know; and 
I really think we ought to go back.” 

“If you really think so ” He turned the car 

reluctantly. “I suppose you wouldn’t care for a 
little run after lunch?” he asked carelessly. “I’ve 
got to go over to Heston. I should be delighted to 
take you.” 

“I should love it — if I can bring Gladys.” 

He did not answer for a moment, then: 

“Oh, bring Gladys by all means,” he said rather 
dryly. 

“What time?” 

“I’ll call for you at two — If that will do.” 

They had reached the house again now; Christine 
got out of the car and stood for a moment with one 
foot on the step looking up at Kettering. 


1 76 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

There was a little silence. 

“How long have we known each other?” he asked 
suddenly. 

She looked up startled — she made a rapid calcula- 
tion. 

“Nearly three weeks, isn’t it?” she said then. 

He laughed. 

“It seems longer; it seems as if I must have known 
you all my life.” 

The words were ordinary enough, but the look in 
his eyes brought the swift colour to Christine’s cheeks 
— her eyes fell. 

“Is that a compliment?” she asked, trying to 
speak naturally. 

“I hope so; I meant it to be.” 

Her hand was resting on the open door of the car; 
for an instant he laid his own above it; Christine 
drew hers quickly away. 

“Well, we’ll be ready at two, then,” she said. She 
turned to the house. Kettering drove slowly down 
the drive. He was a very fine-looking man, Chris- 
tine thought with sudden wistfulness ; he had been so 
kind to her — kinder than anyone she had ever 
known. She was glad he was going to have Upton 
House, as it had got to be sold. He had promised 
her to look after it, and not have any of the trees in 
the garden cut down. 

“It shall all be left just as it is now,” he told her. 

“Perhaps some day you’ll marry, and your wife 
will want it altered,” she said sadly. 

“I shall never get married,” he had answered 
quickly. 


KETTERING HEARS SOMETHING 177 

She had been glad to hear him say that; he was 
so nice as a friend, somehow she did not want anyone 
to come along and change him. 

She went into the house and called to Gladys. 

“I thought you would think we were lost perhaps/’ 
she said laughingly, as she thrust her head into the 
morning-room where Gladys was sitting. 

The elder girl looked up; her voice was rather dry 
when she answered: “No, I did not think that.” 

Christine threw her hat aside. 

“I can’t drive a bit,” she said petulantly. “I’m so 
silly! I nearly ran into the wall at the gate.” 

“Did you?” 

“Yes. Gladys, we’re going over to Heston at 
two o’clock with Mr. Kettering.” 

Galdys looked up. 

“We! Who do you mean by ‘we’?” 

“You and I, of course.” 

“Oh” — there was a momentary silence, then: 
“There’s a letter for you on the table,” said Gladys. 

Christine turned slowly, a little flush of colour 
rushing to her cheeks. She glanced apprehensively 
at the envelope lying face upwards, then she drew a 
quick breath, almost of relief it seemed. 

She picked the letter up indifferently and broke 
open the flap. There was a moment of silence; 
Gladys glanced up. 

“What’s the matter?” she asked. 

Christine was staring out of the window, the letter 
lay on the floor at her feet. 

“Jimmy’s ill,” she said listlessly. 

“111!” Gladys laid down her pen and swung 


i 7 8 the second honeymoon 

round in the chair. “What’s the matter with him?” 
she asked rather sceptically. 

“I don’t know. You can read the letter, it’s from 
Mr. Sangster — Jimmy’s great friend.” 

She handed the letter over. 

Gladys read it through and gave it back. 

“Humph!” she said with a little inelegant sniff; 
she looked at her friend. “Are you going?” she 
asked bluntly. 

Christine did not answer. She was thinking of 
Jimmy, deliberately trying to think of the man whom 
she had done her best during the last three weeks 
to forget. She tried to think of him as he had been 
that last dreadful night at the hotel, when he had 
threatened to strike her, when he had told her to 
clear out and leave him; but somehow she could only 
recall him as he had looked at Euston that morning 
when he said good-bye to her, with the hangdog, 
shamed look in his eyes, and the pathetic droop to 
his shoulders. 

And now he was ill ! It was kind of Sangster to 
have written, she told herself, even while she knew 
quite well that Jimmy had not asked him to ; it would 
be the last thing in the world Jimmy would wish. 

If he were ill, it was not because he wanted her. 
She drew her little figure up stiffly. 

“I shan’t go unless I hear again that it is serious,” 
she said stiltedly. 

“Not — go!” Gladys’s voice sounded somehow 
blank, there was a curious expression in her eyes. 
After a moment she looked away. “Oh, well, you 
must please yourself, of course.” 


KETTERING HEARS SOMETHING 179 

Christine turned to the door — she held Sangster’s 
letter in her hand. 

“Besides,” she said flippantly, “I’m going over to 
Heston this afternoon with Mr. Kettering.” 

She went up to her room and shut the door. She 
stood staring before her with blank eyes, her pretty 
face had fallen again into sadness, her mouth 
dropped pathetically. 

She opened Sangster’s letter and read it through 
once more. Was Jimmy really ill, and was Sangster 
afraid to tell her, she wondered? Or was this merely 
Sangster’s way of trying to bring them together 
again? 

But Jimmy did not want her; even if he were 
dying Jimmy would not want to see her again. 

If he had cared he would never have consented 
to this separation; if he had cared — but, of course, 
he did not care! 

She began to cry softly; big tears ran down her 
cheeks, and she brushed them angrily away. 

She had tried to shut him out of her heart. She 
had tried to forget him. In a defensive, innocent 
way she had deliberately encouraged Kettering. She 
liked him, and he helped her to forget; it restored 
her self-esteem to read the admiration in his kind 
eyes, it helped to soothe the hurt she had suffered 
from Jimmy’s hands; and yet, in spite of it all, he 
was not Jimmy, and nobody could ever take Jimmy’s 
place. She kept away from Gladys till lunch time, 
when at last she appeared, her eyes were red and 
swollen, and she held her head defiantly high. 
Gladys considerately let her alone. Somehow, in 


180 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

spite of everything, she quite expected to hear that 
Christine was off to London by the afternoon train, 
but the meal passed almost in silence, and when it 
was finished Christine said: 

“We’d better get ready; Mr. Kettering will be 
here at two.” 

Gladys turned away. 

“I’d rather not go, if you don’t mind,” she said 
uncomfortably. 

“Not— go!” 

“No — I — I don’t care about motoring. I — I’ve 
got a headache too.” 

Christine stared at her, then she laughed defiantly. 

“Oh, very well; please yourself.” 

She went upstairs to dress; she took great pains 
to make herself look pretty. When Kettering ar- 
rived she noticed that his eyes went past her gloom- 
ily as if looking for someone else. 

“Gladys is not coming,” she said. 

His face brightened. 

“Not coming! Ought I to be sorry, I wonder?” 

She laughed. 

“That’s rude.” 

“I’m sorry.” He tucked the rug round her, and 
they started away down the drive. “You don’t want 
the wheel, I suppose?” he asked whimsically. 

Christine shook her head. 

“Have you — you been crying?” Kettering asked 
abruptly. 

Christine flushed scarlet. 

“Whatever makes you ask me that?” 

“Your eyes are red,” he told her gently. 


KETTERING HEARS SOMETHING 181 


She looked up at him with resentment, and sud- 
denly the tears came again. Kettering bit his lip 
hard. He did not speak for some time. 

“I’ve got a headache,” Christine said at last with 
an effort. “I — oh, I know it’s silly. Don’t laugh 
at me.” 

“I’m not laughing.” His voice dragged a little; 
he kept his eyes steadily before him. 

“I thought perhaps something had happened — 
that you had had bad news,” he said presently. If — 
if there is anything I can do to help you, you know 
— you know I- ” 

“There isn’t anything the matter,” she interrupted 
with a rush. She was terrified lest he should guess 
that her tears were because of Jimmy; she had a 
horror nowadays that everyone would know that she 
cared for a man who cared nothing for her; she 
brushed the tears away determinedly; she set herself 
to talk and smile. 

They had tea at Heston, in the little square parlour 
of a country inn where the floor was only polished 
boards, and where long wooden trestles ran on two 
sides of the room. 

“It looks rather thick,” Kettering said ruefully, 
standing looking down at the plate of bread and 
butter. “I hope you don’t mind; this is the best 
place in the village.” 

Christine laughed. 

“It’s like what we used to have at school, and I’m 
hungry.” 

She looked up at him with dancing eyes; she had 
quite forgotten her sorrow of the morning. Some- 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


182 

how this man’s presence always cheered her and 
took her out of herself. She poured tea for him, and 
laughed and chatted away merrily. 

Afterwards they sat over the fire and talked. 

Christine said she could see faces in the red coals; 
she painted them out to Kettering. 

He had to stoop forward to see what she indi- 
cated; for a moment their heads were very close 
together; it was Christine who drew back sharply. 

“Oughtn’t we to be going home?” she asked with 
sudden nervousness. 

She rose to her feet and went over to the window; 
the sunshine had gone, and the country road was 
grey and shadowy. Kettering’s big car stood at the 
kerb. After a moment he followed her to the win- 
dow; he was a little pale, his eyes seemed to avoid 
hers. 

“I am quite ready when you are,” he said. 

She was fastening her veil over her hat; her fin- 
gers shook a little as she tied the bow. 

Kettering had gone to pay for the tea; she stood 
looking after him with dawning apprehension in her 
eyes. 

He was a fine enough man; there was something 
about him that gave one such a feeling of safety — 
of security. She could not imagine that he would 
ever deliberately set himself to hurt a woman, as — 
as Jimmy had. She went out to the car and stood 
waiting for him. 

“All that tea for one and threepence!” he said, 
laughing, when he joined her. “Wonderful, isn’t 
it?” 


KETTERING HEARS SOMETHING 183 

She laughed too. She got in beside him and 
tucked the rug round her warmly. 

“How long will it take to get home?” she asked. 
She seemed all at once conscious of the growing 
dusk, conscious, too, of anxiety to get back to Gladys. 
She was a little afraid of this man, though she would 
not admit it even to herself. 

“We ought to be home in an hour,” he said. He 
started the engine. 

The car ran smoothly for a mile or two. Christine 
began to feel sleepy. Kettering did not talk much, 
and the fresh evening air on her face was soothing 
and pleasant. She closed her eyes. 

Presently when Kettering spoke to her he got no 
answer; he turned a little in his seat and looked 
down at her, but her head was drooping forward and 1 
he could not see her face. 

“Christine.” He spoke her name sharply, then 
suddenly he smiled; she was asleep. 

He moved so that her head rested against his arm; 
he slowed the car down a little. 

Kettering was not a young man, his fortieth birth- 
day had been several years a thing of the past, 
but all his life afterwards he looked back on that 
drive home to Upton House as the happiest hour he 
had ever known, with Christine’s little head resting 
on his arm and the grey twilight all about them. 
When they were half a mile from home he roused 
her gently. She sat up with a start, rubbing sleepy 
eyes. 

“Oh! where are we?” He laid his hand on hers 
for a moment. 


1 84 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“You’ve been asleep. We’re nearly home.” 

He turned in at the drive of Upton House. He let 
her get out of the car unassisted. 

Gladys was at the door; her eyes were anxious. 

“I thought you must have had an accident,” she 
said. She caught Christine’s hand. “You’re fear- 
fully late.” 

“We had tea at Heston,” Christine said. She ran 
into the house. 

Kettering looked at the elder girl. 

“You would not come,” he said. “Don’t you care 
for motoring?” 

“No.” She came down the steps and stood beside 
him. “Mr. Kettering, may I say something?” 

He looked faintly surprised. 

“May you! Why, of course!” 

“You will be angry — you will be very angry, I am 
afraid,” she said. “But — but I can’t help it.” 

“Angry! What do you mean?” 

There was a moment’s silence, then: 

“Well,” said Kettering rather curtly. 

She flushed, but her eyes did not fall. 

“Mr. Kettering, if you are a gentleman, and I 
know you are, you will never come here again,” she 
said urgently. 

A little wave of crimson surged under Kettering’s 
brown skin, but his eyes did not fall; there was a 
short silence, then he laughed — rather mirthlessly. 

“And if I am not the gentleman you so very 
kindly seem to believe me,” he said constrainedly. 

Gladys Leighton came a little closer to him; she 
laid her hand on his arm. 


KETTERING HEARS SOMETHING 185 

“You don't mean that; you’re only saying it be- 
cause — because ” She broke off with an impa- 

tient gesture. “Oh!” she said exasperatedly, “what 
is the use of loving a person if you do not want them 
to be happy — if you cannot sacrifice yourself a little 
for them.” 

Kettering looked at her curiously. He had never 
taken much notice of her before; he had thought 
her a very ordinary type; he was struck by the sud- 
den energy and passion in her voice. 

“She is not happy now, at all events,” he said 
grimly. 

She turned away and fidgeted with the wheel of 
the car. 

“She could not very well be more wwhappy than 
she is now,” he said again bitterly. 

“She would be more unhappy if she knew she had 
done something to be ashamed of — something she 
had got to hide.” 

He raised his eyes. 

“Are you holding a brief for Challoner?” he 
asked. 

She frowned a little. 

“You know I am not; I never thought he was 
good enough for her. Even years ago as a boy he 
was utterly selfish; but — but Christine loved him 
then ; she thought there was nobody in all the world 
like him; she adored him.” 

He winced. “And now?” he asked shortly. 

She did not answer for a moment; she stood 
looking away from him. 

“There was a letter this morning,” she said tone- 


1 86 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

lessly. “Jimmy is ill, and they asked her to go to 
him” 

“Well!” 

“She would not go. She told me she was going 
to Heston with you instead.” 

The silence fell again. Kettering’s eyes were shin- 
ing; there was a sort of shamed triumph about his 
big person. 

Gladys turned to him impatiently. 

“Are you looking glad? Oh, I think I should kill 
you if I saw you looking glad,” she said quickly. “I 
only told you that so that you might see how much 
she is under your influence already; so that you can 
save her from herself. . . . She’s so little and weak 
— and now that she is unhappy, it’s just the time 
when she might do something she would be sorry 
for all her life — when she might ” 

“What are you two talking about?” Christine de- 
manded from the doorway. She came down the steps 
and stood between them; she looked at Kettering. 
“I thought you had gone,” she said, surprised. 

“No; I — Miss Leighton and I have been discuss- 
ing the higher ethics,” he said dryly. He held his 
hand to Gladys. “Well, good-bye,” he said; there 
was a little emphasis on the last word. 

She just touched his fingers. 

“Good-bye.” She put her arm round Christine; 
there was something defensive in her whole attitude. 

Kettering got into the car; he did not look at 
Christine again. He started the engine; presently 
he was driving slowly away. 

“Have you two been quarreling?” Christine 


KETTERING HEARS SOMETHING 187 

asked. There was a touch of vexation in her voice; 
her eyes were straining through the darkness towards 
the gate. 

Gladys laughed. 

“Quarrelling! Why ever should I quarrel with 
Mr. Kettering? I’ve hardly spoken half a dozen 
words to him in all my life.” 

“You seemed to have a great deal to say to him, 
all the same,” Christine protested, rather shortly. 

They went back to the house together. 

It was during dinner that night that Gladys de- 
liberately led the conversation round to Jimmy again. 

They had nearly finished the unpretentious little 
meal ; it had passed almost silently. Christine looked 
pale and preoccupied. Gladys was worried and 
anxious. 

A dozen times during the past few days she had 
tried to decide whether she ought to write to Jimmy 
or not. Her sharp eyes had seen from the very first 
the way things were going with regard to Kettering, 
and she was afraid of the responsibility. If anything 
happened — if Christine chose to doubly wreck her 
life — afterwards they might all blame her; she knew 
that. 

She was fond of Christine, too. And though she 
had never approved of Jimmy, she would have done 
a great deal to see them happy together. 

It was for that reason that she now spoke of him. 

“When are you going to London, Chris?” 

Christine looked up; she flushed. 

“Going to London ! I am not going. ... I never 
want to go there any more.” 


188 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Gladys made no comment; she had heard the lit- 
tle quiver in the younger girl’s voice. 

Presently : 

“I suppose you think I ought to go to Jimmy,” 
Christine broke out vehemently. “I suppose you are 
hinting that it is my duty to go. You don’t know 
what you are talking about; you don’t understand 
that he cares nothing about me — that he would be 
glad if I were dead and out of the way. He only 
wants his freedom; he never really wished to marry 
me.” 

“It isn’t as bad as that. I am sure he ” 

“You don’t know anything about him. You don’t 
know what I went through during those hateful 
weeks before — before I came here. I don’t care if I 
never see him again; he has never troubled about 
me. It’s my turn now; I am going to show him that 
he isn’t the only man in the world.” 

Gladys had never heard Christine talk like this 
before; she was frightened at the recklessness of 
her voice. She broke in quickly: 

“I won’t listen if you’re going to say such things. 
Jimmy is your husband, and you loved him once, no 
matter what you may do now. You loved him very 
dearly once.” 

Christine laughed. 

“I’ve got over that. He wasn’t worth breaking 
my heart about. I was just a poor little fool in those 
days, who didn’t know that a man never cares for a 
woman if he is too sure of her. Oh, if I could only 
have my time over again, I’d treat him so differently 
— I’d never let him kow how much I cared.” 


KETTERING HEARS SOMETHING 189 

Her voice had momentarily fallen back into its 
old wistfulness. There were tears in her eyes, but 
she brushed them quickly away. 

'‘Don’t talk about him; I don’t want to talk about 
him.” 

But Gladys persisted. 

“It isn’t too late; you can have the time all over 
again by starting afresh, and trying to wipe out the 
past. You’re so young. Why, Jimmy is only a 
boy; you’ve got all your lives before you.” She got 
up and went round to where Christine was sitting. 
She put an arm about her shoulders. “Why don’t 
you forgive him, and start again? Give him another 
chance, dear, and have a second honeymoon.” 

Christine pushed her away; she started up with 
burning cheeks. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave 
me alone — oh, do leave me alone.” She ran from 
the room. 

She lay awake half the night thinking of what 
Gladys had said. She tried to harden her heart 
against Jimmy. She tried to remember only that 
he had married her out of pique; that he cared 
nothing for her — that he did not really want her. 
As a sort of desperate defence she deliberately 
thought of Kettering; he liked her, she knew. She 
was not too much of a child to understand what that 
look in his eyes had meant, that sudden pressure of 
his hand on hers. 

And she liked him, too. She told herself defi- 
antly that she liked him very much; that she would 
rather have been with him over at Heston that af- 


190 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


ternoon than up in town with Jimmy. Kettering at 
least sought and enjoyed her society, but Jimmy ■ 

She clenched her hands to keep back the blinding 
tears that crowded to her eyes. What was she cry- 
ing for? There was nothing to cry for; she was 
happy — quite happy; she was away from Jimmy — 
away from the man whose presence had only tortured 
her during those last few days; she was at home — 
at Upton House, and Kettering was there whenever 
she wanted him. She hoped he would come in the 
morning again; that he would come quite early. 
After breakfast she wandered about the house rest- 
lessly, listening for the sound of his car in the drive 
outside; but the morning dragged away and he did 
not come. 

Christine ate no lunch; her head ached, she said 
pettishly when Gladys questioned her. No, she did 
not want to go out; there was nowhere to go. 

And all the time her eyes kept turning to the 
window again and again restlessly. 

Gladys did not know what to do; she was hoping 
and praying in her heart that Kettering would do 
as she had asked him, and stay away. What was 
the good of him coming again? What was the good 
of him making himself indispensable to Christine? 

The day passed wretchedly. Once she found 
Christine huddled up on the sofa crying; she was 
so miserable, she sobbed; nobody cared for her; she 
was so lonely, and she wanted her mother. 

Gladys did all she could to comfort her, but all the 
time she was painfully conscious of the fact that had 


KETTERING HEARS SOMETHING 191 

Kettering walked into the room just then there would 
have been no more tears. 

Sometimes she thought that it only served Jimmy 
Challoner right; sometimes she told herself that this 
was his punishment — that Fate was fighting him with 
his own weapons, paying him back in his own coin; 
but she knew such thoughts were mere foolishness. 

He and Christine were married, no matter how 
strongly they might resent it. The only thing left 
to them was to make the best they could of life. 

She sat with Christine that night till the girl was 
asleep. She was not very much Christine’s senior in 
years, but she felt somehow old and careworn as she 
sat there in the silent room and listened to the girl’s 
soft breathing. 

She got up and went over to stand beside her. 

So young, such a child, it seemed impossible that 
she was already a wife, this girl lying there with her 
soft hair falling all about her. 

Gladys sighed and walked over to the window. 
It must be a great thing to be loved, she thought 
rather sadly; nobody had ever loved her; no man 
had ever looked at her as Kettering looked at little 
Christine. . . . She opened the window and looked 
out into the darkness. 

It was a mild, damp night. Grey mist veiled the 
garden and shut out the stars; everything was very 
silent. 

If only Christine’s mother had been here to take 
the responsibility of it all, she thought longingly; 
she had so little influence with Christine herself. She 
closed the window and went back to the bedside. 


192 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Christine was moving restlessly. As Gladys 
looked down at her she began to laugh in her sleep 
— a little chuckle of unaffected joy. 

Gladys smiled, too, involuntarily. She was happy 
in her dreams, at any rate, she thought with a sense 
of relief. 

And then suddenly Christine woke with a start. 
She sat up in bed, throwing out her arms. 

“Jimmy •” But it was a cry of terror, not of 

joy. “Jimmy — Jimmy — don’t hurt me. . . . oh!” 

She was sobbing now — wild, pitiful sobs. 

Gladys put her arms round her; she held her 
tightly. 

“It’s all right, dear. I’m here — nobody shall hurt 
you.” She stroked her hair and soothed and kissed 
her; she held her fast till the sobbing ceased. Then: 

“I’ve been dreaming,” said Christine tremblingly. 
“I thought” — she shivered a little — “I thought — 
thought someone was going to hurt me.” 

“Nobody can hurt you while I am here; dreams 
are nothing — nobody believes in dreams.” 

Christine did not answer. She had never told 
Gladys of that one moment when Jimmy had tried 
to strike her — when beside himself with passionate 
rage and misery he had lifted his hand to strike her. 

She fell asleep again, holding her friend’s hand. 


CHAPTER XIX 


A CHANCE MEETING 

T WO days passed uneventfully away, but Ket- 
tering did not come to Upton House. Chris- 
tine’s first faint resentment and amazement 
had turned to anger — an anger which she kept hid- 
den, or so she fondly believed. 

She hardly went out. She spent hours curled up 
on the big sofa by the window reading, or pretending 
to read. Gladys wondered how much she really 
read of the books which she took one by one from 
the crowded library. 

The third morning Christine answered Sangster’s 
letter. She wrote very stiltedly; she said she was 
sorry to hear that Jimmy was not well, but no doubt 
he was all right again by this time. She said she 
was enjoying herself in a quiet way, and very much 
preferred the country to London. 

“I have so many friends here, you see,” she added, 
with a faint hope that perhaps Sangster would show 
the letter to Jimmy, and that he would gather from 
it that she did not miss him in the very least. 

And Sangster did show it to Jimmy; to a rather 
weak-looking Jimmy, propped up in an armchair, 
slowly recovering from the severe chill which had 
made him quite ill for the time being. 

193 


194 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


A Jimmy who spoke very little, and asked no ques- 
tions at all, and who took the letter apathetically 
enough, and laid it by as soon as he had read it. 

“You wrote to her, then,” he said indifferently. 

“Yes.” 

“You might have saved yourself the trouble; I 
knew she would not come. If you had asked me I 
could have told you. Of course, you suggested that 
she should come.” 

“Yes.” 

Jimmy’s eyes smiled faintly. 

“Interfering old ass,” he said affectionately. 

Sangster coloured. He was very unhappy about 
Jimmy; he had always known that he was not par- 
ticularly strong, and, as a matter of fact, during the 
past few days Jimmy had grown most surprisingly 
thin and weak, though he still insisted that there was 
nothing the matter with him — nothing at all. 

There was a little silence. 

“I suppose that’s meant for a dig at me,” said 
Jimmy presently. “That bit about having so many 
friends. . . . She means Kettering, I suppose.” 

“I don’t see why she should,” said Sangster awk- 
wardly. 

Jimmy laughed rather grimly. 

“Well, it’s only tit for tat if she does,” he said. 

“But I thought ” He did not finish; did not 

say that he had thought Christine cared too much for 
him ever to give a thought to another fellow. He 
turned his head against the cushions and pretended 
to sleep, and presently Sangster went quietly away. 

He thought that Christine had — well, not behaved 


A CHANCE MEETING 


i95 


badly. How could anyone blame her for anything 
she chose to do or not to do, after what had oc- 
curred? But, still, he was vaguely disappointed in 
her ; he thought she ought to have come — just to see 
how Jimmy really was. 

But Christine was not thinking very much about 
Jimmy in those days at all. Somehow the fore- 
ground of her life seemed to have got filled up with 
the figure of another man; a man whom she had 
never once seen since that drive over to Heston. 

Sometimes she thought she would write a little 
note and ask him to come to tea; sometimes she 
thought she would walk the way in which she knew 
she could always meet him, but something restrained 
her. 

And then one afternoon, quite unexpectedly, she 
ran into him in the village. 

He was coming out of the little post office as she 
was going in, and he pulled up short with a muttered 
apology before he recognised her; then — well, then 
they both got red, and a little flame crept into Ket- 
tering’s eyes. 

“I thought I was never going to see you any more,” 
Christine said rather nervously. “Are you angry 
with me?” 

“Angry!” He laughed a little. “Why ever 
should I be angry with you? . . . I — the fact is, I’ve 
been in London on business.” 

“Oh!” She looked rather sceptical; she raised 
her chin a dignified inch. “You ought to have told 
me,” she said, unthinkingly. 

He looked at her quickly and away again. 


196 the second honeymoon 

“I missed you,” said Christine naively. 

“That is very kind of you.” There was a little 
silence. “May I — may I walk a little way with 
you?” he asked diffidently. 

“If you care to.” 

He checked a smile. “I shall be delighted,” he 
said gravely. 

They set out together. 

Christine felt wonderfully light-hearted all at 
once; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed. 
Kettering hardly looked at her at all. It made him 
afraid because he was so glad to be with her once 
more; he knew now how right Gladys had been 
when she asked him not to come to Upton House 
again. He rushed into conversation; he told her 
that the weather had been awful in London, and that 
he had been hopelessly bored. “I know so few peo- 
ple there,” he said. “And I kept wondering what 
you were ” He broke off, biting his lip. 

“What I was doing?” Christine finished it for 
him quickly. “Well, I was sitting at the window 
most of the time, wondering why you didn’t come 
and see me,” she said with a laugh. 

“Were you ” 

She frowned a little; she looked up at him with 
impatient eyes. 

“What is the matter? I know something is the 
matter; I can feel that there is. You are angry with 
me; you ” 

“My dear child, I assure you I am not. There is 
nothing the matter except, perhaps I am a little — * 
worried and — and unhappy.” 


A CHANCE MEETING 


197 


He laughed to cover his sudden gravity. “Tell me 
about yourself and — and Jimmy. How is Chal- 
loner ?” 

He had never spoken to her of Jimmy before; his 
name had been tacitly unmentioned between them. 
Christine flushed; she shrugged her shoulders. “I 
don’t know; he wasn’t very well last week, but I 
dare say he is all right again now.” Her voice was 
very flippant. In spite of himself Kettering was 
shocked; he hated to hear her speak like that; he 
had always thought her so sweet and unaffected. 

“He ought to come down here for a change,” he 
said in his most matter-of-fact tones. “Why don’t 
you insist that he comes down here for a change? 
Country air is a fine doctor; he would enjoy it.” 

“I don’t think he would; he hates the country.” 
She spoke without looking at him. “I am sure that 
he is having a much better time in London than he 
would have here ” She broke off. “Mr. Ket- 

tering, will you come back and have tea with me?” 

Kettering coloured; he tried to refuse; he wanted 
to refuse ; but somehow her brown eyes would not let 
him; somehow 

“I shall be delighted,” he heard himself say. 

He had not meant to say it; he would have given 
a great deal to recall the words as soon as they were 
' spoken, but it was too late. Another moment and 
they were in the house. 

He looked round him with a sense of great pleas- 
ure. It seemed a lifetime since he had been here; 
it was like coming home again to be here and with 


198 the second honeymoon 

the woman he loved. He looked at little Christine 
with wistful eyes. 

“Gladys is out,” she said, “so you will have to put 
up with me alone; do you mind?” 

“Do I mind!” She coloured beneath his gaze; 
her heart was beating fast. 

He followed her across the hall. He knew he 
was doing the weak thing; knew that he ought to 
turn on his heel and go away, but he knew that he 
intended staying. 

An hour with Christine alone; it was worth risking 
something for to have that. Christine opened the 
drawing-room door. 

“We’ll have tea here,” she said; “it’s much more 
cosy. I ” 

She stopped dead; her voice broke off into silence 
with a curious little jarring sound. 

A man had risen from the sofa by the window; a 
tall young man, with a pale face and worried-looking 
eyes — Jimmy Challoner ! 


CHAPTER XX 


LOVE LOCKED OUT 

J IMMY only glanced at Christine; his eyes went 
past her almost immediately to the man who was 
following her into the room; a streak of red 
crept into his pale face. 

It was Kettering who recovered himself first; he 
went forward with outstretched hand. 

“Well, I never ! We were just talking about you.” 
His voice was quite steady, perfectly friendly, but 
his heart had given one bitter throb of disappoint- 
ment at sight of Christine’s husband. This was the 
end of their little half-hour together. Perhaps it was 
Fate stepping in opportunely to prevent him making 
a fool of himself. 

Jimmy and he shook hands awkwardly. Jimmy 
had made no attempt to greet his wife. One would 
have thought that they had met only an hour or two 
previously, to judge by the coolness of their meeting, 
though beneath her black frock Christine’s heart was 
racing, and for the first few moments she hardly 
knew what she was doing or what she said. 

Jimmy looked ill ; she knew that, and it gave her a 
faint little heartache; she avoided looking at him if 
she could help it. She left the two men to enter- 
tain each other, and busied herself with the tea-tray, 
199 


200 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Kettering rose to the occasion nobly. He talked 
away as if this unwelcome meeting were a pleasure 
to him. He did his best to put Christine at her ease, 
but all the time he was wondering how soon he could 
make his excuses and escape; how soon he could 
get out of this three-cornered situation, which was 
perhaps more painful to him than to either of his 
companions. 

He handed the tea for Christine, and sat beside 
her, screening her a little from Jimmy’s worried 
eyes. How was she feeling? he w T as asking himself 
jealously. Was she glad to see her husband, or did 
she feel as he did — that Jimmy’s unexpected pres- 
ence had spoilt for them both an hour which neither 
would easily have forgotten? 

“How is your brother?” he asked Jimmy 
presently. “I haven’t heard from him just lately. 
I suppose he has thought no more of coming home? 
He has talked of it for so long.” 

Jimmy roused himself with an effort. He had not 
touched his tea, and he had given the cake he had 
mechanically taken to Christine’s terrier. He looked 
at her now, and quickly away again. 

“He is on his way home,” he said shortly. 

There was a little silence. Christine’s face 
flushed; her eyes grew afraid. 

“On his way home — the Great Horatio?” 
Jimmy’s nickname for his brother escaped her un- 
consciously. Jimmy smiled faintly. 

“Yes; I heard last night. I — I believe he arrives 
in England on Monday.” 

It was Kettering who broke the following silence. 


LOVE LOCKED OUT 


201 


“I shall be glad to see him again. He will be 
surprised to hear that I have come across you and 
Mrs. Challoner.” He spoke to Jimmy, but his 
whole attention was fixed on the girl at his side. He 
had seen the sudden stiffening of her slim little 
figure, the sudden nervous clasp of her hands. 

And then the door opened and Gladys Leighton 
walked into the room. She looked straight at 
Kettering, and he met her eyes with a sort of abashed 
humiliation. He rose to his feet to offer her his 
chair. Jimmy rose also. He and Gladys shook 
hands awkwardly. 

“Well, I didn’t expect to see you,” said Gladys 
bluntly. She glanced at Christine. 

“None of us expected to see him,” said Jimmy’s 
wife, rather shrilly. “The Great Horatio is on his 
way home. I suppose he has come down to tell us 
the news.” Her voice sounded flippant. Jimmy 
was conscious of a sharp pang as he listened to her. 
He hardly recognised Christine in this girl who sat 
there avoiding his eyes, avoiding speaking to him 
unless she were obliged. 

Once she had hung on his every word; once she 
had flushed at the sound of his step; but now, one 
might almost have thought she was Kettering’s wife 
instead of his. 

He hated Kettering. He looked at him with 
sullen eyes. He thought of what Sangster had said 
of this man — that he was always at Upton House; 
that he seemed very friendly with both the girls. A 
vague jealousy filled Jimmy’s heart. Kettering was 
rich, whilst he — well, even the small allowance sent 


202 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


to him by his brother looked now as if it were in 
danger of ceasing entirely. 

If the Great Horatio knew that he and Christine 
were practically separated; if the Great Horatio 
ever knew the story of Cynthia Farrow, Jimmy Chal- 
loner knew that it would be a very poor lookout for 
him indeed. 

He wondered how long Kettering meant to stay. 
He felt very much inclined to give him a hint that 
his room would be preferable to his company; but, 
after all, he himself was in such a weak position. 
He had come to see Christine unasked. It was her 
house, and in her present mood it was quite probable 
that she might order him out of it if he should make 
any attempt to assert his authority. 

She spoke to him suddenly; her beautiful brown 
;eyes met his own unfalteringly, with a curious 
antagonism in them. 

“Shall you — shall you be staying to dinner, or 
have you to catch the early train back to London ?” 

He might have been the veriest stranger. Jimmy 
flushed scarlet. Kettering turned away and plunged 
haphazard into conversation with Gladys Leighton. 

Jimmy’s voice trembled with rage as he forced 
himself to answer. 

“I should like to stay to dinner — if I may.” 

He had never thought it possible that she could 
so treat him, never believed that she could be so 
utterly indifferent. Christine laughed carelessly. 

“Oh, do stay, by all means. Perhaps Mr. Ket- 
tering will stay as well?” 

Kettering turned. He could not meet her eyes. 


LOVE LOCKED OUT 


203 


“I am sorry. I should like to have stayed; but 
— but I have another engagement. I am very 
sorry.” 

The words were lame enough; nobody believed 
their excuse. Kettering rose to take his leave. He 
shook hands with Gladys and Jimmy. He turned 
to Christine. 

“I will come and see you off,” she said. 

She followed him into the hall, deliberately closing 
the door of the drawing-room behind her. 

“We must have our little tea another day,” she 
said recklessly. She did not look at him. “It was 
too bad being interrupted like that.” 

She hardly knew what she was saying. Her 
cheeks were scarlet, her eyes were feverish. 
Kettering stifled a sigh. 

“Perhaps it is as well that we were interrupted,” 
he said very gently. He took her hand and looked 
down into her eyes. 

“You’re so young,” he said, “such a child still. 
Don’t spoil all your life, my dear.” 

She raised defiant eyes. 

“My life was spoilt on my wedding day,” she 

said in a hard voice. “I Oh, don’t let us talk 

about it.” 

But he did not let her hand go. 

“It’s not too late to go back and begin again,” he 
said with an effort. “I know it — it must seem pre- 
sumptuous for me to talk to you like this, but — but 
I would give a great deal to be sure that you were 
happy.” 

“Thank you.” There was a little quiver in her 


204 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


voice, but she checked it instantly. She dragged her 
hand free and walked to the door. 

It was quite dark now; she was glad that he could 
not see the tears in her eyes. 

“When shall I see you again?” she asked 
presently. 

He did not answer at once, and she repeated her 
question: “When shall I see you again? I don’t 
want you to stay away so long again.” 

He tried to speak, but somehow could find no 
words. She looked up at him in surprise. It was 
too dark to see his face, but something in the tense- 
ness of his tall figure seemed to tell her a great deal. 
She spoke his name in a whisper. 

“Mr. Kettering!” 

He laid his hand on her shoulder. He spoke 
slowly, with averted face. 

“Mrs. Challoner, if I were a strong man I should 
say that you and I must never meet again. You 
are married — unhappily, you think now; but, some- 
how — somehow I don’t want to believe that. Give 
him another chance, will you? We all make mis- 
takes, you know. Give him another chance, and 

then, if that fails ” He did not finish. He 

waited a moment, standing silently beside her; then 
he went away out into the darkness and left her 
there alone. 

Christine stood listening to the sound of his foot- 
steps on the gravel drive. He seemed to take a long 
while to reach the gate, she thought mechanically; 
it seemed an endless time till she heard it slam be- 
hind him. 


LOVE LOCKED OUT 


205 


But even then she did not move; she just stood 
staring into the darkness, her heart fluttering in her 
throat. 

She would have said that she had only loved one 
man — the man whom she had married; but now. 

. . . Suddenly she covered her face with her 
hands, and, turning, ran into the house and upstairs 
to her room, shutting and locking the door behind 
her. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE COMPACT 

D OWN in the drawing-room things were de- 
cidedly uncomfortable. 

Gladys sat by the tea-table, enjoying her 
tea no less for the fact that Jimmy was walking up 
and down like a wild animal, waiting for Christine 
to return. 

Secretly Gladys was rather amused at the situa- 
tion. She considered that whatever Jimmy suffered 
now, it served him right. She blamed him entirely 
for the estrangement between himself and his wife. 
She had never liked him very much, even in the old 
days, when she had quarrelled with him for being so 
selfish; she could not see that he had greatly im- 
proved now, as she watched him rather quizzically. 
After a moment: 

“You’ll wear the carpet out,” she said practically. 
Jimmy stood still. 

“Why doesn’t Christine come back?” he de- 
maded. “What’s she doing with that fool Ket- 
tering?” 

“He isn’t a fool,” said Gladys calmly. “I call him 
an exceedingly nice man.” 

Jimmy’s eyes flashed. 


206 


THE COMPACT 


207 


“I suppose you’ve been encouraging him to come 
here and dangle after my wife. I thought I could 
trust you.” 

Gladys looked at him unflinchingly. 

“I thought I could trust you, too,” she said 
serenely. “And apparently I was mistaken. You’ve 
spoilt Christine’s life, and you deserve all you get.” 

“How dare you talk to me like that?” 

She laughed. 

“I dare very well. I’m not afraid of you, Jimmy. 
I know too much about you. Christine married you 
because she loved you; she thought there was 
nobody like you in all the world. It’s your own fault 
if she has changed her mind.” 

“I’ll break every bone in Kettering’s confounded 
body.” Jimmy burst out passionately. “I’ll — 

I’ll ” He stopped suddenly and sat down with 

a humiliating sense of weakness, leaning his head in 
his hands. 

Glady’s eyes softened as she looked at him. 

“You’ve been ill, haven’t you?” she asked. 

He did not answer, and after a moment she left 
the tea-table, got up and went over to where he sat. 

“Buck up, Jimmy, for heaven’s sake,” she said 
seriously. She put her hand on his shoulder kindly 
enough. “It’s not too late. You’re married, after 
all, and you may as well make the best of it. You 
may both live another fifty years.” 

Jimmy said he was dashed if he wanted to. He 
said he had had enough of life; it was a rotten 
swindle from beginning to end. 

Gladys frowned. 


208 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“If you’re going to talk like an utter idiot!” she 
said impatiently. 

He caught her hand when she would have moved 
away. 

“I’m sorry. You might be a pal to a chap, Gladys. 
I — well, I’m at my wits’ end to know what to do. 
With Horatio coming home ” 

Her eyes grew scornful. 

“Oh, so that's why you’ve come here !” 

“It is and it isn’t. I wanted to see Christine. 
You won’t believe me, I know, but I’ve been worried 
to death about her ever since she left me. Ask 
Sangster, if you don’t believe me. I swear to you 
that, if it were possible, I’d give my right hand this 
minute to undo all the rotten past and start again. 
I suppose it’s too late. I suppose she hates me. 
She said she did that last night in London. She 
looks as if she does now. The way she asked me if 
I was going to stay to dinner — a chap’s own wife! — 
and in front of that brute Kettering!” 

“He isn’t a brute.” 

Gladys walked away and poured herself another 
cup of tea. 

“Christine has been hurt — hurt much more than 
you have,” she said at last. She spoke slowly, as 
if she were carefully choosing her words. 

“She was so awfully fond of you, Jimmy.” Jimmy 
moved restlessly. “It — it must have been a dreadful 
shock to her, poor child.” She looked at him 
impatiently. “Oh, what on earth is the use of being 
a man if you can’t make a woman care for you ? She 
did once, and it ought not to be so very difficult to 


THE COMPACT 


209 


make her care again. She — she’s just longing for 
someone to be good to her and love her. That’s 
why she seems to like Mr. Kettering, I know. It is 
only seeming, Jimmy. I know her better than you 
do. It’s only that he came along just when she was 
so unhappy — just when she was wanting someone to 
be good to her. And he has been good to her — he 
really has,” she added earnestly. 

Jimmy drew a long breath. He rose to his feet, 
stretching his arms wearily. 

“I don’t deserve that she should forgive me,” he 
said, with a new sort of humility. “But — but if ever 

she does ” He took a quick step torwards 

Gladys. “Go and ask her to come and speak to me, 
there’s a dear. I promise you that I won’t upset her. 
I’ll do my very best.” 

She went reluctantly, and as soon as the door had 
closed behind her, Jimmy Challoner went over to the 
looking-glass and stared at his pale reflection 
anxiously. He had always rather admired himself, 
but this afternoon his pallor and thinness disgusted 
him. No wonder Christine did not want to look 
at him or talk to him. He passed a nervous hand 
over the refractory kink in his hair, flattening it 
down; then, remembering that Christine had once 
said she liked it, brushed it up again agitatedly. 

It seemed a long time before she came down to 
him. He was sure that half an hour must have 
passed since Gladys shut the door on him, before it 
opened again and Christine stood there, a little pale, 
a little defiant. 

“You want to speak to me,” she said. Her voice 


210 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


was antagonistic, the soft curves of her face seemed 
to have hardened. 

“Yes. Won’t you — won’t you come and sit 
down?” Jimmy was horribly nervous. He dragged 
forward a chair, but she ignored it. She shut the 
door and stood leaning against it. 

“I would rather stay here,” she said. “And please 
be quick. If there is anything important to say ” 

The indifference of her voice cut him to the heart. 
He broke out with genuine grief : 

“Oh, Christine, aren’t you ever going to forgive 
me?” 

Just for a moment a little quiver convulsed her 
face, but it was gone instantly. She knew by past 
experience how easily Jimmy could put just that soft 
note into his voice. She told herself that it was only 
because he wanted something from her, not that he 
was really in the very least sorry for what had 
happened, for the way he had hurt her, for the havoc 
he had made of her ilfe. 

“It isn’t a question of forgiveness at all,” she said. 
“I didn’t ask you to come here. I didn’t want you 
to come here. I was quite happy without you.” 

“That is very evident,” he said bitterly. The 
words escaped him before he could stop them. He 
apologised agitatedly. 

“I didn’t mean that; it slipped out; I ought not to 
have said it. I hardly know what I am saying. If 
you can’t ever forgive me, that settles it once and for 
all, of course; but ” 

She interrupted. 

“Why have you come here? What do you want?” 


THE COMPACT 


21 1 


The question was direct enough, and in despera- 
tion he answered it as directly. 

“I have come because my brother will be home 
next week, and I want to know what I am to tell 
him.” 

For the first time she blenched a little. Her eyes 
sought his with a kind of fear. 

“Tell him? What do you mean? What does it 
matter what you tell him?” 

“I mean about our marriage. The old boy was 

so pleased when he knew that I — that you It 

will about finish him if he knows how — if he knows 
that we — ” He floundered helplessly. ^ 

“You mean if he knows that you married me out 
of pique, and that I found it out?” she added bit- 
terly. 

He attempted no defence; he stood there miser- 
able and silent. 

“You can tell him what you like,” said Christine, 
after a moment. “I don’t care in the very least.” 

“I know you don’t. I quite realise that; but — 
but if, just for the sake of appearances, you felt you 
could be sufficiently forgiving to — to come back to 
me, just — just for a little while, I mean,” he added 
with an embarrassed rush. “I — I wouldn’t bother 
you. I — I’d let you do just as you liked. I wouldn’t 
ask anything. I — I ” 

Christine laughed. 

“You are inviting me to have a second honey- 
moon, in fact. Is that it?” she asked bitterly. 
“Thank you very much. I enjoyed the first so tre- 
mendously that, of course, it is only natural you 


212 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

should think I must be anxious to repeat the experi- 
ment.” 

Jimmy flushed to the roots of his hair. 

“I deserve everything you can say. I haven’t any 
excuse to offer; and I know you’ll never believe it if 
I were to tell you that — that when Cynthia ” 

She put up her hands to her eyes with a little 
shudder. 

“I don’t want to hear anything about her; I don’t 
ever want to hear her name again.” 

‘‘I’m sorry, dear.” The word of endearment 
slipped out unconsciously. Christine’s little figure 
quivered; suddenly she began to sob. 

She wanted someone to be kind to her so badly. 
The one little word of endearment was like a ray 
of sunshine touching the hard bitterness of her heart, 
melting it, breaking her down. 

“Christine!” said Jimmy in a choked voice. 

He went over to her. He put an arm round her, 
drawing her nearer to the fire. He made her sit in 
the arm-chair, and he knelt beside her, holding her 
hand. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to say all the 
many passionate words of remorse that rose to his 
lips, but somehow he was afraid. He was not sure 
of her yet. He was afraid of startling her, of driv- 
ing her back into cold antagonism and suspicion. 

Presently she stopped sobbing; she freed her hand 
and wiped away the tears. 

“It was silly to cry,” she said jerkily. “There was 
nothing to cry for.” She was ashamed that she had 
broken down; angry that the cause of her grief had 


THE COMPACT 


213 

been that one little word of endearment spoken by 
Jimmy. 

He rose to his feet and went to stand by the 
mantelshelf, staring down into the fire. 

There was a long silence. 

‘‘When — when is Horatio coming?” Christine 
asked him presently. 

“I don’t know for certain. The cable said Mon- 
day, but it may be later or even earlier.” 

She looked at him. His shoulders were drooping, 
his face turned away from her. 

There was an agony of indecision in her heart. 
She did not want to make things harder for him 
than was absolutely necessary; and yet she clung 
fast to her pride — the pride that seemed to be whis- 
pering to her to refuse — not to give in to him. She 
stared into the fire, her eyes blurred still with tears. 

“I suppose he’ll stop your allowance if he 
knows?” she said at last, with an odd little mirthless 
laugh. 

Jimmy flushed. 

“I wasn’t thinking of that,” he said quickly. “I 
don’t care a hang what he does; but — but — well, I 
would have liked him to think things were all right 
between us, anyway.” 

He waited a moment. “Of course, if you can’t,” 
he said then, jaggedly, “if you feel that you can’t 
I’ll tell him the truth. It will be the only way out 
of it.” 

A second honeymoon! Christine’s own words 
seemed to ring in her ears mockingly. 

She had never had a honeymoon at all yet. That 


214 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


week in London had been only a nightmare of tears 
and disillusionment and heartbreak. If it meant 
going through it all again 

She got up suddenly and went to stand beside 
Jimmy. She was quite close to him, but she did 
not touch him, though it would have seemed the most 
natural thing in all the world just at that moment 
to slip a hand through his arm or to lay her cheek 
to the rough serge of his coat. She had been so 
proud of him, had loved him so much; and yet now 
she seemed to be looking at him and speaking to him 
across a yawning gulf which neither of them were 
able to bridge. 

“Jimmy, if — if I do — if I come back to you — just 
for a little while, so that — so that your brother won’t 
ever know, you won’t — you won’t try and keep me 
— afterwards? You won’t — you won’t try and force 
me to stay with you, will you?” 

“I give you my word of honour. I don’t know 
how to thank you. I — I’m not half good enough for 
you. I don’t deserve that you should ever give me 
a thought; I’m such an awful rotter,” said Jimmy 
Challoner, with a break in his voice. He tried to 
take her hand, but she drew back. 

“It’s only — only friends we’re going to be,” she 
whispered. 

He choked back a lump in his throat. 

“Only friends, of course,” he echoed, trying to 
speak cheerily. He knew what she meant; knew 
that he was not to remember that they were married, 
that they were just to behave like good pals — for 
the complete deception of the Great Horatio. 


THE COMPACT 


215 


“Thank you, thank you very much,” he said again. 
“And — and when will you — when ” he stam- 

mered. 

“Oh, not yet,” she told him quickly. “There is 
plenty of time. Next week will do. You can let me 
know when your brother arrives. I’ll come then. 

I’ll ” Someone knocked at the door. It was 

Gladys. She looked apologetic. “I’m sorry to 
interrupt, but there’s a telegram for Jimmy. I 
thought it might be important.” She handed him 
the yellow envelope. 

Jimmy took it agitatedly. His heart was thump- 
ing. He was sure that he knew what were its 
contents. He broke open the flap. There was a 
little silence; then he handed the message to his wife. 

“Horatio arrives in London to-morrow morning. 
Wire just received. Thought you ought to know at 
once. — Sangster.” 

Christine read the message through, then let it 
flutter to the floor at her feet; she looked up at 
Jimmy’s embarrassed face. 

“Well?” she said sharply. 

“He’s coming to-morrow, you see,” Jimmy began 
stumblingly. “He — he’ll be in London to-morrow, 

so if — so if ” He cast an appealing glance at 

Gladys. 

“I suppose I’m in the way,” she said bluntly. “I’ll 
clear out.” 

She turned to the door, but Christine stopped her. 

“You’re not in the way — I’d rather you stayed. 
You may as well hear what we’re talking about. 


21 6 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Jimmy’s brother is coming home, and — and, you see, 
he doesn’t know that I — that we ” 

“I’ve asked her to come back to me — at any rate, 
for a time,” Jimmy interrupted valiantly. “I know 
I don’t deserve it, but it would make such a deuce of 
a difference if she would — you know what Horatio is 
— I — I’d give anything to prevent him knowing what 
a mess I’ve made of everything,” he added boyishly. 

They were both looking at Gladys now, Jimmy 
and Christine, and for a moment she stood irreso- 
lute, then she turned to Jimmy’s wife. “Well, what 
are you going to do?” she said, and her usually 
blunt voice was quite gentle. 

Christine moved closer to her friend. 

“Oh, what do you think I ought to do?” she 
appealed in a whisper. 

Gladys glanced across at Jimmy Challoner; he 
looked miserable enough; at the sight of his thin 
face and worried eyes she softened towards him; she 
took Christine’s hand. 

“I think you ought to go,” she said. 

Jimmy turned away; he stood staring down into 
the fire; he felt somehow as if they were both taking 
a mean advantage of Christine; he felt as if he had 
tried to force her hand; he was sure she did not wish 
to come back to him, but he was sure, too, that 
because in her heart she thought it her duty to do so, 
he would not return to London alone that night. 

Nobody spoke for a moment; Jimmy was afraid 
to look round, then Christine said slowly: 

“Very well, what train are we to go by?” 


THE COMPACT 


217 

Her voice sounded a little expressionless; Jimmy 
could not look at her. 

“Any train you like,” he said jerkily. “My time 
is yours — anything you want . . . you have only 
to say what you would like to do.” 

A few weeks ago she would have been so happy 
to hear him speak like that, but now the words 
seemed to pass her by. 

“We may as well have dinner first, and go by a 
fast train,” she said. “I hate slow trains. Will you 
— will you pack some things for me?” She looked 
at Gladys. 

“Of course.” Gladys turned to the door, and 
Christine followed her, leaving Jimmy alone. 

He did not move; he stood staring down at the 
cheery fire, his elbow resting on the mantleshelf. 

He wished now that he had not asked this of his 
wife; he wished he had braved the situation out and 
received the full vent of the Great Horatio’s wrath 
alone. Christine would think less of him than ever 
for being the first to make overtures of peace; he 
could have kicked himself as he stood there. 

Kettering loomed in the background of his mind 
with hateful persistence; Kettering had looked at 

Christine as if — as if Jimmy roused himself 

with a sigh; it was a rotten world — a damned rotten 
world. 

Upstairs Gladys was packing a suit-case for 
Christine, and talking about every conceivable sub- 
ject under the sun except Jimmy. 

Christine sat on the side of the bed, her hands 
folded in her lap. She took no interest in the pro- 


2i 8 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


ceedlngs, she hardly seemed to be listening to her 
friend’s chatter. 

Suddenly she broke into a remark Gladys was 
making : 

“You really think I am doing the right thing, 
Gladys?” 

Gladys sat back on her heels and let a little silk 
frock she had been folding fall to the floor. She 
looked at the younger girl with affectionate anxiety. 

“Yes, I do,” she said seriously. “Things would 
never have got any better as they were. It’s per- 
fectly true, in my opinion, that if you don’t see a 
person for a long time you don’t care whether you 
ever see him again or not, and — and I should hate 
you and Jimmy to — to have a final separation, no 
matter what I’ve said, and no matter what a selfish 
pig he is.” 

Christine smiled faintly. 

“He can’t help not caring for me,” she said. 

“No, but he can help having married you,” Gladys 
retorted energetically. “Don’t think I’m sympathis- 
ing with him. I assure you I’m not. I hope he’ll 
get paid out no end for what he’s done, and the way 
he’s treated you. But — but all the same, I think 
you ought to go back to him.” 

Christine flushed. 

“I hate the thought of it,” she said with sudden 
passion. “I shall never forget those days in Lon- 
don. I tried to pretend that everything was all right 
when anybody was there, just so that the servants 
should not see, but they all did, I know, and they 
were sorry for me. Oh, I feel as if I could kill my- 


THE COMPACT 


219 


self when I look back on it all. To think I let him 
know how much I cared, and all the time — all the 
time he wouldn’t have minded if he’d never seen me 
again. All the time he was longing for — for that 
other woman. I know it’s horrid to talk like that 

about her, but — but she’s dead, and — and ” she 

broke off with a shuddering little sigh. 

“Things will come all right — you see,” said 
Gladys wisely. She picked up Christine’s frock and 
carefully folded it. “Give him a chance, Christine; 
I don’t hold a brief for him, but, my word! it would 
be rotten if the Great Horatio found out the truth 
and cut Jimmy off with a shilling, wouldn’t it? Of 
course, really it would serve him right, but one can’t 
very well tell him so.” She shut the lid of the case, 
and rose to her feet. “There, I think that’s all. It 
must be nearly dinner time.” 

But Christine did not move. 

“I wish you would come with us,” she said 
tremblingly. “Why can’t you come with us? I 
shouldn’t mind half so much if you were there.” 

Gladys glanced at her and away again. 

“Now you’re talking sheer rubbish,” she said 
lightly. “You remind me of that absurd play, The 
Chinese Honeymoon , when the bride took her 
bridesmaids with her.” She laughed; she took 
Christine’s hand and dragged her to her feet. “You 
might smile a little,” she protested. “Don’t let 
Jimmy think you’re afraid of him.” 

“I am afraid. I don’t want to go.” Suddenly 
she began to cry. 


220 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


Gladys’s kind eyes grew anxious, she stood silent 
for a moment. 

“I’m ever so much happier here,” Christine went 
on. “I hate London; I hate the horrid hotels. I’d 

much rather be here with you and ” she broke 

off. 

Gladys let go of her hand; there was a pucker of 
anxiety between her eyes. What had Kettering said 
to Christine? she asked herself in sudden panic. 
Surely he had not broken his word to her. She dis- 
missed the thought with a shrug of the shoulders. 

“Don’t be a baby, Chris,” she said a trifle im- 
patiently. “It’s up to you this time, anyway. 
What’s the use of being young and as pretty as you 
are if you can’t win the man you want?” 

Christine dried her eyes, her cheeks were flushed. 

“But I don’t want him,” she said with sudden 
passion. “I don’t want him any more than he wants 
me.” 

Gladys stared at her in speechless dismay, she felt 
as if a cold hand had been laid on her heart. She 
was unutterably thankful when the dinner gong 
broke the silence; she turned again to the door. 

“Well, I want my dinner, that’s all I know,” she 
said. 

She went downstairs without waiting for Chris- 
tine. 

Jimmy met her in the hall; he looked at her with 
a sort of suspicion, she thought, and she knew she 
was colouring. 

“Look here, Jimmy,” she said with sudden 
brusqueness, “if she comes back here again without 


THE COMPACT 


221 


you it will be the last time you need ask me for help. 
You’ve got your chance. If you can’t make her want 
to stay with you for the rest of your natural life I 
wash my hands of the whole affair.” 

“I’ll do my best. I ” he floundered. 

Gladys caught his arm in friendly fashion. 

“I’ve no right to tell you, I suppose,” she said, 
lowering her voice, “but it won’t be easy. I never 

thought she’d change so, but now — well ” She 

shrugged her shoulders. 

A little flame flashed into Jimmy’s eyes. 

“You mean that she doesn’t care a hang for me 
now, is that it?” he asked roughly. 

Gladys did not answer, she turned her face away. 

Jimmy put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her 
to look at him. 

“Gladys, you don’t mean — not — not Kettering?” 

There was a thrill of agony in his voice. 

“I don’t know — I can’t be sure,” Gladys answered 
him agitatedly. “I don’t know anything. It’s only 
— only what I’m afraid of.” She moved hurriedly 
away from him as they heard Christine’s footsteps 
on the landing upstairs. 

“I suppose it was wrong of me to have said that,” 
she told herself in a panic as she went in to dinner. 
“But after all, it serves him right! Perhaps he’ll 
understand now something of what she suffered, 
poor darling.” 

Out in the hall Jimmy was standing at the foot of 
the stairs looking up at Christine. 

“I — I feel such an awful brute,” he began 
agitatedly. “I don’t deserve that you should com 


222 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


sider me in the least. I — I’ll do my best, Christine.” 

She seemed to avoid looking at him. She moved 
quickly past him. 

“Don’t let’s talk about it,” she said nervously. 
“I’d much rather we did not talk about it.” She^ 
went on into the dining-room without him. 

Jimmy stood for a moment irresolute, he could not 
believe that it was Christine who had spoken to him 
like this. Christine, who so obviously wished to 
avoid being with him. 

A sudden flame of jealousy seared his heart, he 
clenched his fists. Kettering — damn the fellow, how 
dared he make love to another man’s wife! 

But he had conquered his agitation before he 
followed Christine. He did his best to be cheerful 
and amusing during dinner. He was rewarded once 
by seeing the pale ghost of a smile on Christine’s sad 
little face ; it was as if for a moment she allowed him 
to raise the veil of disillusionment that had fallen 
between them and step back into the old happy days 
when they had played at sweethearts. 

But the dinner was over all too soon, and Gladys 
said it was time to think about trains, and she talked 
and hustled very cleverly, giving them no time to 
feel awkward or embarrassed. She was going to 
escort them to the station, she declared, conscious, 
perhaps, that both of them would be glad of her 
company; she said that she wished she could come 
with them all the way, but that, of course, they did 
not want her. And neither of them dared to con- 
tradict her, though secretly Jimmy and Christine 
would both have given a great deal had she suddenly 


THE COMPACT 


223 

changed her mind and insisted on accompanying 
them to London. 

She stood at the door of the railway carriage 
until the last minute; she sent all manner of absurd 
messages to the Great Horatio; she told Christine 
to be sure to give him her love; she kept up a run- 
ning fire of chaff and banter till the train started 
away, and a pompous guard told her to “Stand back, 
there!” and presently the last glimpse of Christine’s 
pale little face and Jimmy’s worried eyes had been 
swallowed up in the darkness of evening. 

Then Gladys turned to walk home alone with a 
feeling of utter desolation in her heart and an un- 
dignified smarting of tears in her eyes. 

“I hope to goodness I’ve done the right thing in 
letting her go,” she thought, as she turned out on to 
the dark road again. “I hope — I beg your pardon,” 
she had bumped into a tall man coming towards her. 

He stopped at sound of her voice, it was Ketter- 
ing. 

“Miss Leighton, what in the world ” he began 

in amazement. 

“I’ve been seeing Jimmy off,” Gladys explained 
airily, though her heart was beating uncomfortably. 
“Jimmy and Christine; they’ve gone off on a second 
honeymoon,” she added flippantly. 

“Jimmy — and Christine!” he echoed her words in 
just the tone of voice she had dreaded and expected 
to hear, half hurt, half angry. She could feel his 
eyes peering down at her, trying to read her face 
through the darkness, then he gave a short, angry 
laugh. 


224 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“I suppose you think you are protecting her from 
me,” he said roughly. 

Gladys did not answer at once, and when she 
spoke it was in a queer, strangled voice : 

“Or perhaps I am protecting you — from her!” 

There was a little silence, then she moved a step 
from him. “Good night,” she said. 

He followed. “I will walk back with you.” He 
strode along beside her through the darkness; he 
was thinking of Christine and Jimmy, speeding away 
to London together, and a sort of impotent rage 
consumed him. 

Jimmy was such a boy! So ignorant of the way 
in which to love a woman like Christine; he asked 
an angry question: 

“Whose suggestion was this — this ?” He 

could not go on. 

“I don’t know — they agreed between themselves, 
I think. Horatio is coming home — the Great 
Horatio, you knew,” Gladys told him, her voice 
sounded a little hysterical. 

“And are you staying on here?” 

“I shall for the present — till Christine comes back 
— if she ever does,” she added deliberately. 

“You mean that you think she won’t?” he 
questioned sharply. 

“I mean that I hope she won’t.” 

They walked some little way in silence. 

“You’ll find it dull — alone at Upton House,” he 
said presently in a more friendly voice. 

“Yes.” Gladys was humiliated to know how near 


THE COMPACT 


225 

she was to weeping; she would rather have died than 
let Kettering know how desolate she felt. 

“You don’t care for motoring, do you?” he said 
suddenly. “Or I might come along and take you 
out sometimes.” 

“I do, I love it.” 

She could feel him staring at her in amazement. 

“But you said ” he began. 

“I know what I said; it was only another way of 

expressing my disapproval of — of Well, you 

knowP’she explained. 

“Oh,” he said grimly; suddenly he laughed. 
“Well, then, may I call and take you out somtimes? 
We shall both be — lonely,” he added with a sigh. 

“And even if you don’t like me ” 

He waited, as if expecting her to contradict him, 
but she did not, and it was impossible for him to 
know that through the darkness her heart was rac- 
ing, and her cheeks crimson because — well, perhaps 
because she liked him too much for complete 
happiness. 


CHAPTER XXII 


TOO LATE! 

J IMMY and Christine travelled to London at 
opposite ends of the carriage- 

jimmy had done his best to make his wife 
comfortable, he had wrapped a rug round her 
though it was a mild night, he had bought more 
papers and ma-gazines than she could possibly read 
on a journey of twice the length, and seeing that she 
was disinclined to talk, he had finally retired to the 
other end of the carriage and pretended to be asleep. 

He was dying for a smoke, he would have given 
his soul for a cigarette, but he was afraid to ask for 
permission, so he sat there in durance vile with his 
arms folded tightly and his eyes half closed, while 
the train sped on through the night towards London. 

Christine turned the pages of her magazines 
diligently, though it is doubtful if she read a word or 
saw a single picture. 

She felt very tired and dispirited, it was as if she 
had been forced back against her will to look once 
more on the day of her wedding, when the cold 
cheerlessness of the church and vestry had frightened 
her, and when Jimmy had asked Sangster to lunch 
with them. The thought of Sangster gave her a 
gleam of comfort; she liked him, and she knew that 


226 


TOO LATE! 


227 

he could be relied upon; she wondered how soon she 
would see him. 

And then she thought of Kettering and the last 
words he had said to her on the steps at Upton 
House, and a little sigh escaped her. She thought 
Jimmy was alseep, she put down the magazine and 
let herself drift. There was something about 
Kettering that had appealed to her as no other man 
had ever done, something manly and utterly reliable 
which she found restful and protecting. She won- 
dered what he would say when he heard that she 
had gone back to Jimmy, and what he would think. 

She looked across at her husband, his eyes were 
wide open. 

“Do you want anything?” he asked quickly. 

“No, thank you.” She seized upon the magazine 
again, she flushed in confusion. 

“I’ve been wondering,” said Jimmy gently, “where 
you would like to stay when we get to town. I think 
you’d be more comfortable in — in my rooms if you 
wouldn’t mind going there, but- ” 

She interrupted hastily, “I’d much rather go to an 
hotel. I don’t care where it is — any place will do.” 

She spoke hurriedly, as if she wished the conversa- 
tion ended. 

Jimmy looked at her wistfully, she was so pretty, 
much prettier than ever he had realised, he told him- 
self with a sense of loss. A thousand times lately 
he found himself wishing that Cynthia Farrow had 
not died; not that he wanted her any more for 
himself, not that it any longer made him suffer to 
think of her and those first mad days of his engage- 


228 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


ment, but so that he might have proved to Christine 
that the fact of her being in London and near to him 
affected him not at all, that he might prove his in- 
fatuation for her to be a thing dead and done with. 

Now he supposed she would never believe him. 
He looked at her pretty profile, and with sudden 
impulse he rose to his feet and crossed over to sit 
beside her. 

“I want to speak to you,” he said, when she made 
a little movement as if to escape him. “No, I’m not 
going to touch you.” 

There was a note of bitterness in his voice, once 
she had loved him to be near her — a few short weeks 
ago — and she would have welcomed this journey 
with him alone, but now things were so utterly 
changed. 

“I must speak to you, just once, about Cynthia,” 
he said urgently. “Just this once, and then I’ll never 
mention her again. I can’t hope that you’ll believe 
what I’m going to say, but — but I do beg of you to 
try and believe that I am not saying all this because 
— because she — she’s dead. If she had lived it would 
make no difference to me now; if she were alive at 
this moment she would be no more to me than — than 
any other woman in the world.” 

Christine kept her eyes steadily before her; she 
listened because she could not help herself, but she 
felt as if someone were turning a knife in her heart. 

“The night — the night she died,” Jimmy went on 
disconnectedly, “I was going to make a clean breast 
of — of everything to you, and ask you to forgive me 
and let us start again. I was, ’pon my honour I was, 


TOO LATE! 


229 

but — but Fate stepped in, I suppose, and you know 
what happened. When I married you I’ll admit that 
that I didn t care for you as much as — as much as 

I ought to have done, but now ” 

“But now” — Christine interrupted steadily though 
she was driven by intolerable pain — “now it’s too 
late. I’m not with you to-night for any reason except 
that— that I think it’s my duty, and because I don’t 
want your brother to know or to blame you. We — 
we can’t ever be anything — except ordinary friends. 
I suppose we can’t get unmarried, can we?” she said 
with a little quivering laugh. “But — but at least 
we need never be anything more than — than 
friends ” 

Jimmy was very white; Christine had spoken so 
quietly, so decidedly, they were not angry words, not 
even deliberately chosen to hurt him, they sounded 
just final! 

He caught her hand. 

“Oh, my God, you don’t mean that, Christine, 
you’re just saying it to — to punish me, just to — to — 
pay me out. You don’t really mean it — you don’t 
mean that you’ve forgotten all the old days, you don’t 
mean that you don’t care for me any more — -that you 
never will care for me again. I can’t bear it. Oh, 
for God’s sake say you don’t mean that.” 

There was genuine anguish in his voice now, and 
in his eyes, but Christine was not looking at him, 
she was only remembering that he had once loved 
another woman desperately, passionately, and that 
because that woman was no longer living he wished 


230 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


to transfer his affections; she kept her eyes steadily 
before her, as she answered him: 

“I am sorry, I don’t want to hurt you, but — but 
I am afraid that — that is what I do mean.” 

There was a moment of absolute silence. She did 
not look at Jimmy; she was only conscious of the 
fierce desire in her heart to hurt him, to make him 
feel, make him suffer as he had once made her suffer 
in the days that seemed so far away now and dead 
that she could look back with wonderment at herself 
for the despair she had known then. 

She was glad that she no longer suffered; glad that 
she had lost her passionate love for him in this 
numbed indifference. She wondered if he really felt 
her words, or if he were only pretending. 

Once he had pretended to her so well that she 
had married him; now, as a consequence, she found 
herself suspecting him at every turn, doubting him 
whenever he spoke. 

The train shot into a tunnel, and Christine caught 
her breath. She shrank a little farther away from 
Jimmy in the darkness, but she need not have feared. 
Seeing her instinctive movement he rose at once and 
walked away to the other side of the carriage. He 
hardly spoke to her again till they reached London. 

It was late then. Christine felt tired, and her head 
ached. She asked no more questions as to where 
they were going or what he proposed to do with her. 
She followed him into the taxi. She did not hear 
what directions he gave to the driver. It seemed a 
very little while before they stopped, and Jimmy was 
holding out his hand to help her to alight. 


TOO LATE! 


231 


They went into the hotel together, and for a mo- 
ment Jimmy left her alone in the wide, empty lounge 
while he went to make arrangements for her. 

She looked round her dully. The old depression 
she had known when last she was in London returned. 
She hated the silence of the lounge; even the doors 
seemed to shut noiselessly, and everywhere the car- 
pets were so thick that footsteps were muffled. 

Jimmy came back. He seemed to avoid her eyes. 

“I have taken rooms for you; I think you will be 
comfortable. Will you — will you go up now? I 
have ordered supper; it will be ready in fifteen min- 
utes. I will wait here.” 

Christine obeyed wearily. She went up in the lift 
feeling lonely and depressed. A kind-faced maid 
met her on the first landing. She went with Christine 
into her bedroom; she unpacked her bag and made 
the room comfortable for her; she talked away 
cheerily, almost as if she guessed what a sore heart 
the girl carried with her. Christine felt a little com- 
forted as she went downstairs again. 

It was nearly eleven o’clock. A few people were 
having supper in the room to which she was directed. 
Jimmy was there waiting for her. 

They sat down together almost silently. 

“A second honeymoon!” Gladys Leighton’s 
words came back to Christine with a sort of mockery. 

She looked at her husband. He was pale and 
silent. He only made a pretence of eating; they 
were both glad when the meal was over. 

There was a moment of awkwardness when they 
rose from the table. 


232 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“I am tired,” Christine said when he asked if she 
would care to go to the drawing-room for a little 
while. “I should like to go to bed.” 

“Very well.” Jimmy held out his hand. “Good 
night.” He looked at her and quickly away again. 
“I will come round in the morning.” 

She raised startled eyes to his face. 

“You are not staying here then?” 

He coloured a little. 

“No; I thought you would prefer that I did not. 
I shall be at my rooms — if you want me.” 

“Very well.” She just touched the tips of his 
fingers. The next moment she was walking alone 
up the wide staircase. 

She never slept all night. Though she had felt 
tired at the end of her journey, she never once 
closed her eyes now. 

She wished she had not come. She hated Jimmy 
for having persuaded her; she hated Gladys for hav- 
ing practically told her that it was her duty to do 
as he wished; she hated Jimmy afresh because now, 
having got her to London, he had gone off and left 
her. 

She did not choose to believe that he had really 
done so because he thought she would prefer it. She 
felt lonely and deserted; tears welled into her eyes. 

“A second honeymoon !” What a farce it all was. 

It seemed an eternity before the rumble of traffic 
sounded again in the streets and the first grey day- 
light crept through the blind chinks. 

She wondered what Gladys was doing, what Ket- 


TOO LATE! 


233 

tering was doing, and if he knew that she had gone, 
and where. 

She deliberately conjured the memory of his eyes 
and voice as he had last looked at her and spoken. 

Her heart beat a little faster at the memory. She 
knew well enough that he loved her, and for a mo- 
ment she wondered what life would be like with him 
to always care for her and shield her. 

He was much older than Jimmy. She did not 
realise that perhaps his knowledge of women and 
the way in which they liked to be treated was the 
result of a long apprenticeship during which he had 
had time to overcome the impulsive, headlong blun- 
derings through which Jimmy was still stumbling. 

She was up and dressed early; she had had her 
breakfast and was ready to go out when Jimmy 
arrived. He looked disappointed. He had made 
an effort and got up unusually early for him in order 
to be round at the hotel before Christine could pos- 
sibly expect him. He asked awkwardly if she had 
slept well. She looked away from him as she an- 
swered impatiently: 

“I never sleep well in London — I hate it.” 

He bit his lip. 

“I’m sorry. What would you like to do this morn- 
ing?” 

“I’m going out.” 

“You mean that you don’t wish me to come?” 

Christine shrugged her shoulders. 

“Come if you wish — certainly.” 

They left the hotel together. It was a bright 


2 34 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


sunny morning, and London was looking its best. 
Christine rushed into haphazard speech. 

“Have you heard from your brother again?” 

“No; I hardly expected to.” 

Something in the constraint of his voice made her 
look at him quickly. 

“I suppose — I suppose he really is coming?” she 
said with sudden suspicion. 

Jimmy flushed scarlet. 

“I haven’t deserved that,” he said. 

Christine laughed — a hard little laugh, strangely 
unlike her. 

“I am not so sure,” she answered. 

They had turned into Regent Street now. A 
flower-girl thrust a bunch of scented violets into Jim- 
my’s face. 

“Buy a bunch for the pretty lady, sir.” 

Jimmy smiled involuntarily. He looked at Chris- 
tine. 

“May I buy them for you?” He did not wait for 
her answer; he gave the girl a shilling. 

Christine took the flowers indifferently. She kept 
marvelling at herself. It seemed impossible that she 
was the same girl who had once walked these very 
streets with Jimmy, her heart beating fast with hap- 
piness. Then, had he given her a bunch of violets, 
she would have thrilled at the little gift; but now — 
she tucked them carelessly into the front of her coat. 
She did not notice when presently they fell out; but 
Jimmy had seen, and there was a curiously hurt look 
in his eyes. 

They walked through the park. Jimmy met sev- 


TOO LATE! 


235 

eral people he knew; he raised his hat mechanically, 
making no attempt to stop and speak. 

Christine looked at everyone with a sense of an- 
tagonism. 

Of course all Jimmy’s friends knew that once he 
had loved Cynthia Farrow; no doubt many of them 
had seen him walking with her through this very 
park. Something of the old jealousy touched her for 
a moment. She would never be able to forget, even 
if she lived for years and years; the memory of the 
woman who had wrecked her happiness would always 
be there between them — a shadow which it was im- 
possible to banish. 

“What about some lunch?” said Jimmy presently. 
He glanced at his watch. “It’s half past twelve.” 

“I should like to ask Mr. Sangster to come with 
us,” Christine said quickly. “Is he anywhere — any- 
where where we can find him?” 

“I can ’phone. He’s not on the ’phone himself, 
but the people downstairs will take a message, if 
you don’t mind waiting for a moment.” 

“I don’t mind at all.” 

She was dreading another tete-a-tete lunch with 

it husband. It had been in her mind all the morn- 
ing to suggest that Sangster came with them. She 
remembered bitterly how once Jimmy had suggested 
bringing his friend to share their wedding breakfast. 
Things had strangely reversed themselves since that 
morning. 

She waited outside the call box while Jimmy went 
in; she watched him through the glass door. He 
was standing with his hat at the back of his head, 


236 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

his elbow resting on the wooden box itself. He 
looked very young, she thought, in spite of his 
slightly haggard appearance. Something in his atti- 
tude reminded her of him as he had been in his Eton 
days — long-legged and ungainly in his short jacket. 
She smothered a little sigh. They had drifted such 
a weary way since then; too far to ever retrace their 
steps. 

Presently he rejoined her. 

“I am sorry — Sangster is not in.” 

“Oh!” She looked disappointed. “Is there — 
isn’t there anyone else we can ask?” 

His eyes searched her flushed face bitterly. 

“You hate being alone with me as much as all 
that?” 

She looked away. 

“I only thought it would be more lively.” 

“You find me such dull company.” 

She made no reply. 

“Things have changed since we were engaged, 
haven’t they?” said Jimmy then, savagely. “You 
were pleased enough to be with me then; you never 
wanted a third.” 

“Things are reversed — that is all,” she told him 
unemotionally. 

He laughed ironically. 

“I don’t think you know quite how successfully you 
are paying me out,” he said. 

“I would rather not talk about it,” she inter- 
rupted. “It can do no good. I have done as you 
asked me; I told you I could do no more, that you 
must expect nothing more.” 


TOO LATE! 


237 


There was a little silence. 

“I’m sorry,” said Jimmy stiltedly. 

They lunched together. 

“I’ll get some tickets for a theatre to-night,” 
Jimmy said. “That will kill the time, won’t it?” 

“I didn’t say I found the time drag,” she told him. 

“No; but you look bored to death,” he answered 
savagely. 

It was such an extraordinary situation — that 
Christine should ever be bored with him. It cut 
Jimmy to the heart; he looked at her with anger. 

She was leaning back in her chair, looking round 
the room. She was as little interested in him as he 
had once been in her. 

Twenty times during the day he cursed himself for 
the mad infatuation that had wrecked his happiness. 
There was something so sweet and desirable about 
Christine. He would have given his soul just then 
for one of her old radiant smiles; for just a glimpse 
of the light in her eyes which had always been there 
when she looked at him; for the note of shy happi- 
ness in her voice when she spoke to him. 

The days of delirium which he had spent with 
Cynthia Farrow seemed like an impossible dream 
now, when he looked back on them: the late nights 
and champagne suppers, the glare of the footlights, 
the glamour and grease paint of the theatre. His 
soul sickened at the thought of the unnatural life he 
had led then. All he wanted now was quiet happi- 
ness — the life of domesticity for which he had once 
pitied himself, believing it would be his lot as Chris- 
tine’s husband, seemed the most desirable thing on 


23 8 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


■% 


earth; just he and she — perhaps down in the country 
— walking through fields and woods, perhaps at 
Upton House, with the crowd of old memories to 
draw them together again, and wipe the hard bitter- 
ness from little Christine’s brown eyes. 

It was pouring with rain when they left the 
restaurant; the bright sunshine of morning had ut- 
terly gone, the street was dripping, the pavements 
saturated. 

“We shall have to go home, I suppose,” said 
Jimmy lugubriously. 

“Home?” Christine looked up at him. “Do you 
mean to the hotel?” she asked. 

“I suppose so, unless you would care to come to 
my rooms,” said Jimmy, flushing a little. “There’s 
sure to be a fire there, and — and it’s pretty com- 
fortable.” 

For a moment she hesitated, and his heart-beats 
quickened a little, hoping she would agree to the 
suggestion ; but the next moment she shook her head. 

“I don’t care to — thank you. I will go back to the 
hotel.” 

Jimmy hailed a taxi. He looked moody and de- 
spondent once more. They drove away in silence. 

Presently — 

“I will go to your rooms if — if you will answer me 
one thing,” said Christine abruptly. 

Jimmy stared. The colour ran into his pale face. 

“I will answer anything you like to ask me — you 
know I will.” 

“Did — did Miss Farrow ever go to your rooms?” 

She asked the question tremblingly; she could not 


TOO LATE! 


239 


* 

look at him. With a sudden movement Jimmy 
dropped his face in his hands; the hot blood seemed 
to scorch him; this sudden mention of a name he 
had never wished to hear again was almost unbear- 
able. 

“Yes,” he said; “she did.” He looked up. 
“Christine — don’t condemn me like that,” he broke 
out agitatedly. He saw the cold disdain in her 
averted face. 

“She lived such a different life from anything you 
can possibly imagine. It’s — well — it’s like being in 
another world. Women on the stage think nothing 
of — of — the free-and-easy sort of thing. She used 
to come to my rooms to tea. She used to bring her 
friends in after the theatre — after rehearsals.” He 
leaned over as if to take her hand, then drew his 
own away again. “I — I ask you to come now be- 
cause — because I thought you would take away all 
the memories I want to forget. Can’t you ever 
forget too? Can’t you ever try and forgive me? It’s 
— it’s — awful to think that we may have to live to- 
gether all our lives and that you’ll never look at me 
again as you used to — never be glad to see me, never 
want me to touch you.” His voice broke; he bit his 
lip till it bled. 

Christine clasped her hands hard in her lap. 

“It was awful to me too — once,” she said dully. 
“Awful to know that you didn’t love me when I was 
so sure that you did. But I’ve got over it. I sup- 
pose you will too, some day, even if you think it hurts 
very much just now. I dare say we shall be quite 
happy together in our own way some day. Lots of 


240 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


married people are — quite happy together, and don’t 
love each other at all.” 

She dismissed him when they reached the hotel. 
She went up to her room and cried. 

She did not know why she was crying; she only 
knew that she felt lonely and unhappy. She would 
have given the world just then for someone to come 
in and put kind arms round her. She would have 
given the world to know that there was someone to 
whom she really mattered, really counted. 

Jimmy only wanted her because he realised that 
she no longer wanted him. The wedding ring of 
which she had been so proud was now an unwelcome 
fetter of which she would never again be free. 

They went to the theatre in the evening. Jimmy 
had take great pains to make himself smart; it was 
almost pathetic the efforts he made to be bright and 
entertaining. He told her that he had sent a note 
to Sangster to meet them afterwards for supper. It 
gave him a sharp pang of jealousy to notice how 
Christine’s eyes brightened. 

“I am so glad,” she said. “I like him so much.” 

She was almost friendly to him after that. Once 
or twice he made her laugh. 

He was very careful to keep always to impersonal 
subjects. He behaved just as if they were good 
friends out for an evening of enjoyment. When they 
left the theatre Christine looked brighter than he had 
seen her for weeks. Jimmy was profoundly grateful. 
He was delighted that Sangster should see her with 
that little flush in her cheeks. She did not look so 
very unhappy, he told himself. 


TOO LATE! 


241 


Sangster was waiting for them when they reached 
the supper-room. He greeted Christine warmly. 
He told her jokingly that he had got his dress-suit out 
of pawn in her honour. He looked very well and 
happy. The little supper passed off cheerily enough. 
It was only afterwards, when they all drove to the 
hotel where Christine was staying, that Sangster 
blundered; he held a hand to Jimmy when he had 
said good night to Christine. 

“Well, so long, old chap.” 

Jimmy flushed crimson. 

“I’m not staying here. Wait for me; I’m com- 
ing along.” 

“You’re a silly fool,” Jimmy said savagely, as they 
walked away. “What in the world did you want to 
say that for?” 

“My dear fellow, I thought it was all right. I 
thought you’d made it up. I’m awfully sorry.” 

“We haven’t made it up — never shall from what I 
can see,” Jimmy snapped at him. “Oh, for the 
Lord’s sake let’s talk about something else.” 

Sangster raised his troubled eyes to the dark star- 
less sky. He had been so sure everything was all 
right. Jimmy had made no recent confidence to 
him. He had thought Christine looked well and 
happy — and now, after all. . . . 

“It looks as if we shall have some more rain,” he 
said dully. “It’s been awful weather this week, 
hasn’t it?” 

“Damn the weather!” said Jimmy Challoner. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE UNEXPECTED 

F OUR days passed away, and still the Great 
Horatio had not arrived in London. He had 
sent a couple of telegrams from Marseilles 
explaining that a chill had delayed him. 

“Sly old dog,” Jimmy growled to Sangster. “He 
means that he’s having a thundering good time where 
he is.” 

Sangster laughed. 

“Marseilles isn’t much of a place. Perhaps he 
really is ill.” 

Jimmy grunted something unintelligible. 

“I doubt it,” he added. “And the devil of it is 
that Christine doesn’t believe me. She doesn’t 
think the old idiot’s coming home at all; she doesn’t 
believe anything I tell her — now.” 

“Nonsense!” But Sangster’s eyes looked anxious. 
He had seen a great deal during the last four days, 
and for the first time there was a tiny doubt in his 
mind. Had Christine really lost her love for Jimmy? 
He was obliged to admit that it seemed as if she had. 
She never spoke to him if she could help it, and he 
knew that Jimmy was as conscious of the change as 
he, knew that Jimmy was worrying himself to a 
shadow. 

242 


THE UNEXPECTED 


243 


‘‘Your brother will turn up when you’re least ex- 
pecting him,” he said in his most matter-of-fact voice. 
“You’ll see if he doesn’t — and then everything will 
come right.” 

Jimmy grunted. He fidgeted round the room and 
came to anchorage in front of the window. He stood 
staring out into the not very cheerful street. 

Sangster knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose. 

“Well, we may as well be going,” he said. “I 
thought you told me we were to lunch with your 
wife.” 

“So I did. She’s gone shopping this morning — 
didn’t want me. I said we’d meet her at the Savoy 
at one. I want to call in at my rooms first, if you 
don’t mind.” Jimmy spoke listlessly. He was a 
great deal with Sangster nowadays. Christine so 
often made excuses for him not to be with her, and 
he had got into that state when he could not tolerate 
his own company. He dreaded being left to his 
thoughts; he would not be alone for a minute if he 
could help it. 

They left Sangster’s rooms and went to Jimmy’s. 

“I asked Christine to come here the other day,” 
Jimmy said with a short laugh as he fitted his key 
in the door. “She wouldn’t, of course.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because Cynthia had been here.” He looked 
away from his friend’s eyes. “I don’t blame her. 
She’ll never understand the difference. That — that 

other I wonder how it ever came about at all 

now, when I look back.” 

Sangster followed him silently. 


2 44 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“I shall give the d d place up/’ Jimmy said 

sullenly. “I can’t afford to keep it on really; and 
if she won’t come here ” 

Sangster made no comment. Jimmy put his hat 
down on the table and went over to the sideboard 
for whisky and glasses. 

“Don’t be a fool, Jimmy,” said Sangster. 

He shrugged his shoulders when Jimmy told him 
to mind his own business. He turned away. 

“Here’s a telegram,” he said suddenly. 

Jimmy turned. 

“For me?” 

“Yes — your brother I expect.” 

Jimmy snatched up the yellow envelope and tore 
it open. He read the message through : 

“Coming to London to-night. Meet me Waterloo 
eight-thirty.” 

He laughed mirthlessly. 

“The Great Horatio?” Sangster asked. 

“Yes.” 

Jimmy had forgotten the whisky. He took up his 
hat. 

“Come on; I must tell Christine.” He made for 
the door. 

“You’d better take the wire to show her,” said 
Sangster. They went out into the street together. 

“It’s too early to go to the Savoy,” said Jimmy. 
He was walking very fast now. There was a sort of 
eagerness in his face; perhaps he hoped that his 
brother’s presence, as Sangster had said, would make 
all the difference. “We’ll hop along to the hotel 
and fetch her.” 


THE UNEXPECTED 


245 


He walked Sangster off his feet. He pushed open 
the swing door of the hotel with an impatient hand. 

“Mrs. Challoner — my wife — is she in?” 

The hall porter looked at Jimmy curiously. He 
thought he and Christine were the strangest married 
couple he had ever come across. There was a little 
twinkle in his solemn eyes as he answered : 

“Mrs. Challoner went very early, sir. She asked 
me to telephone to you at the Savoy at one o’clock 
and say she was sorry she would not be able to meet 
you ” 

“Not be able to meet me?” Jimmy’s voice and 
face were blank. 

“That is what Mrs. Challoner said, sir. She went 
out with a gentleman, — a Mr. Kettering, she told me 
to say, sir.” 

Sangster turned sharply away. For the first time 
for many weeks he was utterly and profoundly sorry 
for Jimmy Challoner, as he stood staring at the hall 
porter with blank eyes. The eager flush had faded 
from his face; he looked, all at once, ill and old; he 
pulled himself together with an effort. 

“Oh! All right — thanks — thanks very much.” 

His voice sounded dazed. He turned and went 
down the steps to the street; but when he reached 
the pavement he stood still again, as if he hardly 
knew* what he was doing. When Sangster touched 
his arm he started violently. 

“What is it? Oh, yes — I’m coming.” He began 
to walk on at such a rate that Sangster could hardly 
keep pace with him. He expostulated good- 
humouredly : 


246 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

“What’s the hurry, old chap? I’m getting old, 
remember.” 

Jimmy slackened speed then. He looked at his 
friend with burning eyes. 

“I’ll break every bone in that devil’s carcass,” he 
said furiously. “I’ll teach him to come dangling 
after my wife. I ought to have known that was his 
little game. No wonder she won’t go anywhere with 
me. It’s Kettering — damn his impertinence ! I 
suppose he’s been setting her against me. He and 
Horace always thought I was a rotter and an out- 
sider. I’ll spoil his beauty for him; I’ll ” His 

voice had risen excitedly. A man passing turned to 
stare curiously. 

Sangster slipped a hand through Jimmy’s arm. 

“Don’t be so hasty, old chap. There’s no harm 
in your wife going out to lunch with Kettering if she 
wants to. Give her the benefit of the doubt for the 
present, at least.” 

“She’s chucked me for him. She promised to 
meet me. She thinks more of him than she does of 
me, or she’d never have gone.” There was a sort of 
enraged agony in Jimmy’s voice, a fierce colour 
burned in his pale face. 

Sangster shrugged his shoulders. It was rather 
amusing to him that Jimmy should be playing the 
jealous husband — Jimmy, whose own life had been 
so singularly selfish and full of little episodes which 
no doubt he would prefer to be buried and forgotten. 

Jimmy turned on him : 

“You’re pleased, of course. You’re chuckling up 
your sleeve. You think it serves me right — and I 


THE UNEXPECTED 


247 


dare say it does; but I can’t bear it, I tell you — I 
won’t — I won’t.” 

The words were boyish enough, but there wa9 
something of real tragedy in his young voice, some- 
thing that forced the realisation home to Sangster 
that perhaps it was not merely dog-in-the-manger 
jealousy that was goading him now, but genuine pain. 
He looked at him quickly and away again. Jimmy’s 
face was twitching. If he had been a woman one 
would have said that he was on the verge of an 
hysterical outburst. Sangster rose to the occasion. 

“Let’s go and get a drink,” he said prosaically. 
“I’m as dry as dust and we haven’t had any lunch.” 

Jimmy said he wasn’t hungry, that he couldn’t eat 
a morsel of anything if it were to save his life. He 
broke out again into a fresh torrent of abuse of 
Kettering. He cursed him up hill and down dale. 
Even when they were in the restaurant to which 
Sangster insisted on going he could not stop Jimmy’s 
flow of expletives. One or two people lunching near 
looked at them in amazement. In desperation 
Sangster ordered a couple of brandies; he forced 
Jimmy to drink one. Presently he quieted a little. 
He sat with his elbows on the table and his head in 
his hands. With the passing of his passionate rage, 
depression seemed to have gripped him. He was 
sullen and morose, he would not answer when Sang- 
ster spoke to him; when they left the restaurant he 
insisted on going back to Christine’s hotel. 

He questioned the porter closely. Where had she 
gone? Had they driven away together or walked? 

They had had a taxi, the man told him. He began 


248 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

to look rather alarmed; there was something in 
Jimmy’s white face and burning eyes that meant mis- 
chief, he thought. He told the “Boots” afterwards: 
“We shall hear more of this — you mark my words.” 

“A taxi — yes. . . . Go on.” Jimmy moistened 
his dry lips. “You — you didn’t hear where — what 
directions? . . 

“Yes, sir. The gentleman told me to say Euston, 
told me to tell the driver to go to Euston, I mean, 

sir ” the man explained in confusion. He was 

red in the face now and embarrassed. 

“Euston,” said Jimmy and Sangster together. 
They looked at one another, Jimmy with a sort of 
dread in his eyes, Sangster with anxiety. 

“Yes, sir. Euston it was, I’m sure. And the 
gentleman told me to tell the driver to go as fast as 
he could.” 

There was a little silence. Sangster slipped a 
hand through Jimmy’s arm. 

“Thanks — thanks very much,” he said. He led 
Jimmy away. 

He called a taxi and told the man to drive to 
Jimmy’s rooms. He made no attempt to speak, did 
not know what to say. Jimmy was leaning back 
with closed eyes. 

Presently: 

“Do you think she’s gone?” he asked huskily. 

Sangster made a hurried gesture of denial : 

“No, no.” 

Jimmy laughed mirthlessly. 

“She has,” he said. “I know she has. Serves me 
damned well right. It’s all I deserve.” There w T as 


THE UNEXPECTED 


249 


a little pause. “Well,” he said, “she’s more than 
got her own back, if it’s any consolation to her to 
know it.” 

He felt as if there were a knife being turned in 
his heart. His whole soul revolted against this 
enforced pain. He had never suffered like this in all 
his life before. Even that night at the theatre, when 
Cynthia Farrow had given him his conge , he had not 
suffered as now; then, it had been more damage to 
his pride than his heart; but this — he loved Christine 
— he knew now that he loved little Christine as he 
had never loved any other woman, as he never would 
love anyone again. 

He cursed himself for a blind fool. It goaded him 
to madness to think of the happiness that had been 
his for the taking, and which he had let fall to the 
ground. He clenched his teeth in impotent rage. 
When they reached his rooms he threw his hat and 
coat aside, and began pacing up and down as if he 
could not keep still for a moment. Life was insuffer- 
able, intolerable; he could not imagine how he was 
going to get through all the stretch of years lying in 
wait for him. He had forgotten that the Great 
Horatio was coming home that night; the Great 
Horatio had suddenly faded out of the picture; it 
was no longer a thing of importance if his allowance 
were cut down, or stopped once and for all. All he 
wanted was Christine — Christine. He would have 
given his soul for her at that moment, for just one 
glimpse of the old trust and love in her brown eyes, 
for just a sight of the happy smile with which she 
had greeted him when they were first engaged. 


250 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

They had all been his once, and now he had lost her 
forever. 

Another man had taken and prized the treasure he 
had blindly thrown away. Jimmy groaned as he 
paced up and down, up and down. 

Sangster was pretending to read. He turned the 
pages of a magazine, but he saw nothing of what 
was written there. In his own way he was as un- 
happy as Jimmy, in his own way he was suffering 
tortures of doubt and apprehension. 

He did not know Kettering; had only seen him 
once at Upton House; but he fully realised that the 
man had a strong personality, and one very likely 
to hold and keep such a nature as Christine’s. 

But he could not bear to think of the shipwreck 
this meant for them all. He could not believe that 
her love for Jimmy had died so completely; she had 
loved him so dearly. 

Jimmy came over to where he sat: 

“Go and ring up again, there’s a dear chap,” he 
said. His voice was hoarse. “Ring up the hotel for 
me, will you ? She may have come back. . . . Oh, 
I hope to God she has,” he added brokenly. 

Sangster rose at once. He held out his hand. 

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy. I’d give anything — any- 
thing ” he stopped. “But it’s all right, you see,” 

he added cheerily, struck by the despair in his friend’s 
face. “She’ll be back there by now. We’re both 
getting scared about nothing. . . . I’ll ring up.” 

He walked over to the desk where Jimmy’s ’phone 
stood. There was a moment of suspense as he rang 
and gave the number. 


THE UNEXPECTED 


251 


Jimmy had begun his restless pacing once more. 
His hands were deep thrust in his trousers pockets, 
his head bent. His heart seemed to be hammering 
in his throat as he tried not to listen to what Sangster 
was saying — tried not to hear. 

“Yes. . . . Challoner — Mrs. Challoner. I only 
wondered if she had returned. . . . Not yet — oh. 

. . . Yes. ... A wire. . . .Yes. . . .” 

There was a little silence; a tragic silence it seemed 
to Jimmy. He was standing still now. He felt as 
if his limbs had lost all power of movement. His 
eyes were fixed on Sangster’s averted face. After 
a moment Sangster hung up the receiver. 

He did not turn at once; when, at last, he moved, 
it was very slowly. He went across to Jimmy and 
laid a hand on his arrm “She’s not there, old man; 
but . . . but there’s a wire from her — she wired 
to the manager. . . .” He paused. He looked 
away from the agony in Jimmy’s eyes. He tried 
twice to find his voice before he could go on, then: 
“She — she’s not coming back to-night,” he said. 
“The — the wire was sent from — from Oxford . . .” 

And now the silence was like the silence of death. 
Sangster held his breath. He could feel the sudden 
rigidness of Jimmy Challoner’s arm beneath his 
hand. 

Then Jimmy turned away and dropped into a chair 
by the table. He fell forward with his face hidden 
in his outstretched arms. 

“Oh, my God!” he said in a hoarse whisper. 

It was so useless to try and offer any consolation. 
Sangster stood looking at him with a suspicious 


252 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


moisture in his honest eyes. Christine — little Chris- 
tine ! His heart felt as if it were breaking as he 
thought of her — of her love for Jimmy — of the first 
days of their engagement. And now it was in vain 
that he tried to remember that Jimmy was to blame 
for it all. He tried to harden his heart against him; 
but, somehow, he could not. He went over to where 
he sat and laid a kind hand on his shoulder. 

“Don’t give up yet, boy.” At that moment he 
felt years older than his friend. “There may be 
some mistake. Don’t let’s give up till we’re sure — 
quite sure ” 

Jimmy raised his face. His lips were grey and 
pinched. 

“It’s no use,” he said hopelessly. “No use. . . . 
Somehow I know it. . . . Oh, my God! If I could 
only have it over again — just a day. . . .” The 
anguish in his voice would have wrung a harder heart 
than Sangster’s. For a moment there was unbroken 
silence in the room. Then Jimmy struggled to his 
feet. 

“I must go after her. She won’t come back, I 
know. But at least I can try. ... It may not be 

too late Kettering — damn him! . . .” He 

broke off. He stood for a moment swaying to and 
fro. 

Sangster caught his arm. 

“You’re not fit to go. Let me. . . . I’ll do all 
I can. . . I give you my word of honour that I’ll 
move heaven and earth to find her. And we may 
be mistaken. We may. . . He broke off. Some- 
one had knocked softly on the door. For a moment 


THE UNEXPECTED 


253 


neither of them answered, then the handle was softly 
turned, and Christine stood there on the thres- 
hold. . . . 

Sangster caught his breath hard in his throat. He 
looked at her, and he had to hold himself back with 
an iron hand to keep from rushing to her, from fall- 
ing at her feet in abasement for the very real doubt 
and dread that he had cherished against her. 

She looked so young — such a child, and her brown 
eyes were so sweet and shy as she looked at Jimmy 
— never at him. He realised it with a little stabbing 
pain that it was not once at him that she looked, but 
past him, to where Jimmy stood like a man turned to 
stone. 

Then: “Christine,” said Jimmy Challoner with a 
great cry. 

He put out his hand and touched her, almost as if 
he doubted that she was real. His breath was com- 
ing fast; he was ashen pale. 

“Christine,” he said again in a whisper. 

Sangster moved past him. He did not look at 
Christine any more. He walked to the door and 
opened it. He hesitated a moment, wondering if 
either of them would see him going, be conscious of 
his presence. But he might not have been there for 
all they knew. He went out slowly and shut the 
door behind him. 

It was the shutting of the door that broke the 
spell, that roused Jimmy from the lethargy into 
which he had fallen. He tried to laugh. 

“I’m sorry. I — I didn’t expect you.” The words 
sounded foolish to himself. He tried to cover them. 


254 


THE SECOND HONEYMOON 


“Won’t you sit down? I’m — I’m glad. ...” A 
wave of crimson surged to his face. “Oh, my God! 
I am glad to see you,” he said hoarsely. 

He groped backwards for his chair and fell into it. 

A most humiliating weakness came over him. He 
hid his face in his hands. 

Christine stood looking at him with troubled eyes; 
then she put out her hand and touched him timidly: 

“Jimmy!” 

He caught her hand and carried it to his lips. He 
kissed it again and again — the little fingers, the soft 
palm, the slender wrist. 

“I thought I should never see you again. I 
couldn’t have borne it. . . . Christine — oh my dear, 
forgive me, forgive me. I’m so wretched, so utterly, 
utterly miserable. . . .” 

The appeal was so boyish — so like the old selfish 
Jimmy whom Christine had loved and spoilt in the 
days when they were both children. It almost 
seemed as if the years were rolled away again and 
they were down at Upton House, making up a child- 
ish quarrel — Jimmy asking for pardon, she only too 
anxious to kiss and be friends. 

Tears swam into her eyes and her lips trembled; 
but she did not move. 

“I want to tell you something,” she said slowly. 

He looked up, his eyes full of a great dread. 

“Not that you’re going away — I can’t bear it. 
You’ll drive me mad — Christine — little Christine.” 
He was on his knees beside her now, his arms round 
her waist, his face buried in the soft folds of her 
dress. “Forgive me, Christine — forgive me. I love 


THE UNEXPECTED 


255 

you so, and I’ve been punished enough. I thought 
you’d gone away with that devil — that brute Ket- 
tering. I’ve been half mad!” He flung back his 
head and looked at her. She was very flushed. Her 
eyes could not meet his. 

“That’s — that’s just what I want to tell you,” she 
said in a whisper. 

Jimmy’s arms fell from about her. He rose to his 
feet slowly; he tried to speak, but no words would 
come. Then, quite suddenly, he broke down into 
sobbing. 

He was very much of a boy still, was Jimmy Chal- 
loner. Perhaps he would never grow up into a man 
as Kettering and Sangster understood the word; but 
his very boyishness was what Christine had first 
loved in him. Perhaps he could have chosen no 
surer or swifter way to her forgiveness than this. . . . 

In a moment her arms were round his neck. She 
tried to draw his head down to her shoulder. Her 
sweet face was all concern and motherly tenderness 
as she kissed him and kissed him. 

“Don’t, Jimmy — don’t! Oh, I do love you — I do 
love you.” 

She began to cry too, and they kissed and clung 
together like children who have quarrelled and are 
6orry. 

Jimmy drew her into his arms, and they sat clasp- 
ing one another in the big arm-chair. It was a bit 
of a squeeze, but neither of them minded. His arms 
were round her now, her head on his shoulder. He 
kissed her every minute. He said that he had all 
the byegone years of both their lives to make up for. 


256 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

He asked her a hundred times if she really loved 
him; if she had forgiven him; and if she loved him 
as much as she had done a month ago — two months 
ago; if she loved him as much as when they were 
children; and if she would love him all his life and 
hers. 

“All my life and yours,” she told him with trem- 
bling lips. 

He had kissed the colour back to her cheeks by 
this time. She looked more like the girl he had seen 
that fateful night in the stalls at the theatre. He 
kissed her eyes because he said they were so beauti- 
ful. He kissed her hair. 

Presently she drew a little away from him. 

“But I want to talk to you,” she said. She would 
not look at him. She sat nervously twisting his 
watch-chain. 

“Yes,” said Jimmy. He lifted her hand and held 
it against his lips all the time she spoke. 

“It’s about — about Mr. Kettering,” she said in a 
whisper. 

Jimmy swore — a sign that he was feeling much 
better. 

“I don’t want to hear his confounded name.” 

“Oh, but you must — Jimmy. I — I — he ” 

“He’s been making love to you ” 

No answer. Jimmy took her face in his hands, 
searching its flushed sweetness with jealous eyes. 

“Has he?” he demanded savagely. 

“N-no . . . but . . . oh, Jimmy, don’t look like 
that. He only came up this morning because — be- 
cause Gladys is ill. He thought I ought to know 


THE UNEXPECTED 


257 

— and — and — I thought I would go down and see 
her. But in the train ” she faltered. 

“Yes . . said Jimmy from between his teeth. 

Christine raised her brown eyes. 

“He said — he said ” Suddenly she fell for- 

ward, hiding her face against his coat. “Oh, it 
doesn’t matter, dear; it doesn’t matter, because it 
was then that I knew it was only you I wanted — 
only you I loved. I knew that I couldn’t bear any 
other man to say that he loved me — that it was you 
— only you.” 

“Oh, my sweet!” said Jimmy huskily. He turned 
her face and kissed her lips. “I don’t deserve it; 
but — oh, Christine, do believe that there’s never been 
anyone like you in my life; that I’ve never cared for 
anyone as I do for you — all that — that other ” 

“I know — I know,” she was thinking remorsefully 
of the days when Kettering had seemed to come 
before Jimmy in her heart; of the days when she had 
been unhappy because he stayed away. And now 
there was a deep thankfulness in her heart that he 
himself had brought things to a climax. She had 
been so pleased to see him when he called at the 
hotel that morning. She had never dreamed that 
sheer longing had driven him to London to see her, 
or that he had made Gladys the excuse. She had 
readily agreed to a run down to Upton House to see 
Gladys. She had started off with him quite happily 
and unsuspectingly. And then — even now it sent a 
little shiver of dread through her to think of the way 
he had spoken — the way he had pleaded with her — 
looked at her. 


258 THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

He had held her hands, kissed them, he had tried 
to kiss her, and it had been the touch of his lips that 
had melted the numbness of her heart and told her 
that she loved Jimmy; that in spite of everything 
that had happened, everything he had done, he was 
the one and only man who would ever count in her 
life. Passionate revulsion had driven her back to 
London. She had parted with Kettering then and 
there. She had told him that she never wished to 
see him again. She had felt as if she could never be 
happy till she was back with Jimmy, till she had made 
it up with him, till they had kissed and forgiven one 
another. She told him all this now simply enough. 
The little Christine of happier days had come back 
from the land of shadowy memories to which she had 
retreated as she sat on Jimmy’s knee and kissed him 
between their little broken sentences and asked him 
to forgive her. 

“I’ve never, never loved anyone but you, Jimmy,” 
she said earnestly. “I’ve never really loved anyone 
but you.” 

And Jimmy said, “Thank God!” 

He looked at her with passionate thankfulness and 
love. He told her all that he had suffered since he 
went to the hotel and found she had gone. He said 
that she had punished him even more than she could 
ever have hoped. 

“And that wire There was a wire to say that 

you were not coming back,” he said with sudden 
bitter memory. She nodded. 

“I sent it from Oxford. We had to change there. 


THE UNEXPECTED 


259 

I meant to stay with Gladys. Poor Gladys!” she 
added with a little soft laugh of happiness. 

“She can do without you — I can’t,” he said quickly. 
“Really and truly?” she asked wistfully. 

Jimmy drew her again into his arms. He held 
her soft cheek to his own. 

“I’ve never really wanted anything or anyone 
badly in all my life until now,” he said. “Now 
you’re here, in my arms, and I’ve got the whole 
world.” 

They sat silent for a little. 

“Happy?” asked Jimmy in a whisper. 

Christine nodded. 

“Quite — quite happy,” she told him. 

Presently : 

“Jimmy, you won’t — you won’t be horrid to — to 
Mr. Kettering, will you? He was kind to me — he 
was very kind to me when — when I was so unhappy.” 
“Were you very unhappy, my sweet?” 
“Dreadfully.” 

“I’m sorry, darling — so sorry. I can’t tell you.” 
Christine kissed him. 

“You won’t ever be unkind again, Jimmy?” 
“Never — neveH Do you believe me?” 

She looked into his eyes. 

“Yes.” 

“And you do love me?” 

Christine made a little grimace. 

“I’m tired of answering that question.” 

“I shall never be tired of asking it,” he said. 
“And about Kettering? We shan’t ever need to see 


26 o the second honeymoon 


him again, shall we? So there’ll be no chance for me 
to tell him that I should like to punch his beastly 
head.” 

Chirstine laughed happily, then she grew serious 
all at once. 

“Jimmy, do you know that I somehow think he 
will marry Gladys ” 

“What!” said Jimmy in amazement. 

She nodded seriously. 

“I believe Gladys likes him. I don’t know, but 
I do believe she does. And she’d make him a splen- 
did wife.” 

Jimmy screwed up his nose. 

“Don’t let’s talk about her,” he said. “I’d much 
rather talk about my own wife ” 

Christine flushed. 

“Do you think I shall make a — nice wife, Jimmy?” 
she asked in a whisper. 

Jimmy caught her to his heart. 

“Do I? Darling — I can’t — somehow I can’t 

answer that question. I’m not half good enough for 

you. I don’t deserve that you ” he began 

brokenly. 

She laid her hand on his lips. 

“You’re not to say rude things about my husband,” 
she told him with pretended severity. 

He kissed the hand that covered his mouth. 

“And so when the Great Horatio comes ” said 

Christine. Jimmy gave a stifled exclamation; he 
dragged his watch from his pocket. 

“By Jove!” he said. 

“What’s the matter?” she asked anxiously. 


THE UNEXPECTED 


261 


He explained: 

“I had a wire from the old chap. We were to 
meet him at Waterloo this evening at eight-thirty; 
it’s nearly eight now.” 

Christine climbed down from his knee with a sud- 
den show of dignity. 

“We must go at once — of course we must.” She 
came back for a moment to his arms. u Oh, Jimmy, 
aren’t you glad that we’re really — really all right, 
that we haven’t got to pretend now the Great Hora- 
tio is home?” 

“I can never tell you how glad,” said Jimmy 
humbly. 

They kissed, and Christine danced over to the 
looking-glass to put her hat straight. 

Jimmy watched her with adoring eyes. Suddenly: 
“I shall tell him that we can’t stay after to-night,” 
he said decidedly. “I shall tell him that he can’t 
possibly expect it.” 

Christine looked round. 

“Tell whom — your brother? What do you mean 
— that he can’t expect it?” 

Jimmy put an arm round her. 

“I shall tell him — don’t you know what I shall tell 
him?” he said fondly. He bent his head suddenly to 
hers. “I’ll tell him that we’re going away to-mor- 
row” — his voice dropped to a whisper — “on a second 
honeymoon.” 

“Oh!” said Christine softly. 


LR8Mi-*30 





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